


The Adventure of the Blue Sapphire

by recoveringrabbit



Series: A Love Story With Detective Interruptions [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Marriage Proposal, a bit of mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-28 04:04:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6314560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recoveringrabbit/pseuds/recoveringrabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas 1937, and the pieces have finally fallen into place: Fitz has the ring, the invitation, the plan, the speech, and—of course—the girl. Confident in his preparation, he scoffs at his mother's reminder that the important thing is that he actually ask the question and receive the answer. Even Jemma couldn't have planned a more perfect proposal; what could possibly go wrong?</p>
<p>Fitz really shouldn't assume what will happen at Verinder Hall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Christmas Eve Eve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ruthedotcom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruthedotcom/gifts).



> For ruthedotcom and her mother, who said a million years ago, "you know what would be fun for the sequel?" This isn't the sequel and it's way out of season, but I hope you both enjoy it regardless!
> 
> The title, by the way, is a tip of the hat to the Holmes story "The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle" which shares several features with this one. However, no goose will be making an appearance.

When Fitz picked up the phone in his office to hear Edith Simmons inviting him and his mother to come down to Verinder Hall the next week for Christmas, the first thing he thought—after the inevitable split second of terror—was that his time had come.

If invitations to the Hall had been had been sought-after rarities at the best of times, since the unpleasant events of the spring they had become non-existent. Some of that of course was understandable; it wasn’t quite the thing to invite people for a house party when two guests had been murdered at your last one. They might be hesitant to come. However, Fitz thought it was carrying things a bit too far when he was forced to get a room at the Green Dragon every time there was a summons and not even invited to the Hall for lunch afterwards. At that point it began to feel a bit personal. But whether he had the Christmas spirit or Jemma’s intractable kindness or his impassioned plea to Sir Robert to thank for it, Edith’s stilted invitation was still an invitation, and an invitation meant that he and Jemma would be there together, and _that_ meant he could finally get this ring out of his pocket and onto her hand where it belonged.

“Mr. Fitz?”

Mrs. Simmons’s voice snapped him out of his reverie quickly. Although he and Sir Robert had developed a respectful chumminess based in a mutual adoration of Jemma, Fitz still found Edith a bit terrifying. He stammered over an appropriate response. “Yes, ma’am. Mrs. Simmons. I’ll—I’ll have to ask my mother but I’m sure we’d be delighted.”

“The pleasure will be ours. It’ll just have Jemma provide the details, shall I? I’m sure you’ll be speaking with her.”

“Yes, probably—” But she had rung off before he got the whole word out. Fitz put the phone back on the receiver in a daze. He had been thinking about this for months—to be honest, he had been dreaming about it in the back of his head nearly from the time they had kissed in the hospital—and now, after weeks of biting back the question whenever he was in her presence for longer than two seconds, he could put his plan into fruition.

Spinning in his chair to tug open his desk drawer, he reached into the velvet-lined cavity Uncle George used for spare cuff links and pulled out the slim silver band with its very decent-sized sapphire, letting it rest in his palm. The most expensive, beautiful thing he had ever held and it _still_ didn’t hold a candle to her. He hoped she would like it, though. It seemed like her: small and delicate, but strong and dazzling. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t been able to stop carrying it around. It went from his bedside table to his coat pocket to his desk drawer and back again, without even the box to protect it. He liked the cool feel of it under his fingers. He would almost miss it when it was gone, except that would mean that Jemma was his fiancée, and then his wife. He couldn’t seem to stop the grin spreading across his face.

For the first time ever, he was glad that he and Jemma had schedules that prohibited meeting as often as they would like. Not only would he have a difficult time explaining the gleeful expression that seemed to be permanently plastered across his face, but it would have been all he could do to keep himself from proposing at every moment. The very imminence of the event made the wait intolerable. But he was determined: he would propose at the Icehouse and nowhere else with a speech that would make them both cry, and then they would stay out as late as she could manage and map out their whole lives. It was only right.

His mother listened patiently to his plans as he went over them again and again, answering any question with a brief “I expect it will be fine” and a question regarding packing or train tickets or something meaningless like that. How she could be so casual about it he didn’t understand. It was _only_ the most important thing he would ever do. And yet she seemed far more concerned with how many ties he was bringing.

“It’ll be fine,” he said, intentionally ironic, and she pursed her lips and stopped responding, even to his very serious musings on one or both knees.

The week passed achingly slowly, made worse by the fact that Jemma had gone radio silent. Up to her neck in research for her master’s degree, she was spending every spare minute in the lab to allow herself a guilt-free holiday. “I’m glad you’re coming,” she said the last time they phoned, “because I don’t know when I’ll get away again. I’ve managed just the three days and then it’s back to the grindstone.”

“That bad?” he asked, not missing the paleness of her voice.

She sighed. “No. It’s rather thrilling, actually. Only exhausting, and I—well. I’m _very_ glad you’re coming, Fitz.”

_I miss you_ , she said, and he swallowed back the ever-present lump of missing her too. “We’ll be taking the last express up on the 23rd. I’m sorry we can’t come before.”

“I’ll come get you from the station. I imagine by then I’ll be gasping for some decent stimulation.”

All sort of buzzers went off in his brain, which he shut down by firmly reminding himself that Mam would be standing _right there_. “The sooner the better,” he said instead. “Hey, Jemma. Do you know how many water molecules there are on the earth?”

There was a pause before her voice came over the line, soft and tender. “Not as many as the mass of the sun. See you soon, Fitz.”

He recalled the conversation on the train, smiling to himself as he leaned forward to peer out the window. Of course he couldn’t expect to see her yet, but he didn’t want to miss a moment.

“Son.”

He looked in surprise at his mother, who had been silent the whole trip up. Putting her hand on his bouncing knee, Jean waited until he stilled before continuing. “I know you want it to be just right,” she said, “but remember that you love each other so it will be perfect, even if it doesn’t go the way you expect.”

“What do you mean?”

Screwing up her face in the original of his thoughtful expression, she restated. “It’s just that the important thing is that you’re engaged at the end of it.”

“Right,” he said, still not understanding. Of course that was the important thing, but what could go wrong? He had planned it within an inch of its life. Jemma would be proud of his preparation. “Mam, I don’t know—”

She sighed, shaking her head. “Oh, leave it, Leo.”

Why the women in his life spent most of their time rolling their eyes at him he didn’t know. There was no time to ponder, though, because the train was nearing the station and he had more important things to think about. Turning from his mother, he resumed his post at the window, finally flinging down the sash to stick his head out. The wind whipping against his face made his eyes water, but not so much that he couldn’t distinguish the bundled-up figure at the other end of the platform, already waving excitedly. He waved back with equal enthusiasm, wondering idly if it was possible for one’s skin to crack from smiling too widely. If so, he was definitely at risk.

As the train slowed to a stop, he ducked back into the compartment and bustled about the necessary business: helping his mother on with her coat and shrugging into his; swinging the suitcases down from the overhead rack; checking his pockets for their tickets and the all-important ring. Both found, he pulled the tickets out and beat a quick tattoo against his leg as they waited for the all-clear.

“Oh, just give me the tickets,” Jean said after he dropped them for the third time, “take the suitcases and go.”

Fitz was nothing if not an obedient son. The cases were light as feathers when he took them up, if slightly less easy to wrangle down the corridor—oh well, what was a suitcase without a few dents in it? and what did it matter, anyway? Nothing, he realized as he hit the latch and tumbled onto the platform, nothing at all when there was a girl with eyes like a river and a smile like the sun forgoing her natural sense of propriety to run towards you with both hands outstretched like you were all she wanted in life. He had enough presence of mind to move out of the path of traffic before dropping the bags to catch her as she crashed into him, the force nearly knocking him over—unless that was just her very presence affecting the laws of nature. Though she initially caught him around the middle, she repositioned quickly, putting her hands on his shoulders and pulling him to her to wrap both arms around him. “Oh, Fitz,” she murmured into his neck, “it’s been too long. Why didn’t I take the position you offered me so we could see each other every day?”

Tucking his chin into her shoulder, he breathed deeply of her heady lavender scent. “Because I didn’t offer you a position.”

“Whyever not? I’m more than qualified.”

“Because you said ‘don’t offer me a position, Fitz, or I’ll take it and never get my masters!’”

“A dreadful decision, really.”

In his more selfish moments he was inclined to agree, but that would, God willing, shortly no longer be a problem.

“Why’re you smiling?” she asked without moving.

He sucked in the corners of his mouth. “How do you know I’m smiling?”

“Fitz.” She loosened her grip enough to fall back on her heels and huffed, exasperation immediately contradicted by the fondness in the curve of her mouth. “I know what your smile feels like.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “you’re well-acquainted with my mouth by now.”

“Fitz!”

His arms tightened around her as he grinned, casting a glance up and down the nearly-empty platform. “As we’re the only people to get off and my peach of a mother is taking an excessively long time to give up the tickets, we have by my estimation half a minute to renew the acquaintance. If you like.”

It was a mere matter of form to ask, so he was very surprised when she simply pecked the corner of his mouth before stepping from the circle of his arms. Suddenly bereft, he frowned and scanned the platform again. Aside from a scowling, spotty girl about three meters away, there was no one to see them. “Jemma? Is everything—”

“Normally, you know,” she said hurriedly, straightening her hat, “I’d like nothing better, but at present it is not _quite_ the thing—one has a duty you see—”

“I say, Jemma, it’s _beastly_ cold. I do think you might introduce me.”

Fitz tore his eyes away from her confused explanation to find the source of the petulant demand. The scowler, now just over Jemma’s shoulder, met his gaze for an instant before her eyes skittered away into a firmer frown. If such a thing was possible. Jemma shot him an apologetic glance before stepping back again to include the girl in their conversation. “Of course, I’m so sorry. Fitz, may I introduce my cousin Chumps?”

“It’s Cynthia, actually.” The girl stuck out her hand. “Just because some of us go by our childish pet names doesn’t mean we all want to do so.”

Dazedly, Fitz shook his pleasure to meet her—if it was weaker than normal, well, he wasn’t that pleased. “I think Jemma’s a lovely name, but I thought you preferred Simmons?”

“Only from certain people,” Jemma said, controlling her blush admirably. “Chumps—Cynthia, I mean—is my cousin on my mother’s side, my mother’s sister’s daughter. She’s at the Hall for Christmas while her parents are abroad.”

“Ah.” Fitz wasn’t quite sure what to do with this information. On the one hand, the presence of Chumps put a damper on what he’d like to do right at this moment. On the other, he couldn’t see how she could ruin his ultimate plans for the holiday. He would have liked to know, of course, but he had a sneaking suspicion that if he had listened to his mother he might have been forewarned. Said suspicion only grew when Mam stepped off the train, greeted Jemma cordially, and turned her warm smile to the girl.

“Is this Cynthia?”

Instantly, Chumps’s whole demeanor changed. “And you must be Mrs. Fitz. I’m pleased to meet you.”

The transformation was startling and both Fitz and Jemma blinked a few times before they were able to continue. Then at once they swung into movement, Fitz stooping to retrieve the bags while Jemma pulled the keys from her coat pocket. “Shall we go?” she asked brightly. “I’ve brought the Austin.”

Which meant, at least, that he could sit in the front seat with her and talk, possibly hold her gloved hand at stops. That would be enough for now. They had nearly three days, after all, not everything had to happen at once. He could be patient.

Only then somehow he ended up in the back with Chumps, who alternated between sidelong evil eyes and awkward small talk about MI’s latest developments in plastics. On the whole he preferred the glares, which at least allowed him to listen to Jemma’s easy conversation with his mother and catch her eye in the rearview mirror. _I’m sorry_ , she told him at one point.

_No matter_ , he responded, content with any of her presence at all.

Once arrived at the Hall, he let his mother and Chumps out before hastily untying the suitcases to carry them inside—a task which would have been much easier in the garage, but also would have left his mother to brave the lions with no one but Chumps for support. Much as he would prefer several heated minutes in the Austin with Jemma, he couldn’t just abandon her to that terrible fate. Not this first time, at least. Suitcases untied, he leaned into view through the back window and gave Jemma a wave and a regretful grimace. She winked in response, setting his heart aflutter as she drove away.

Watching wisely, Jean took his elbow. “Onward, then?”

He could feel her hand trembling through three layers of sleeves and pressed it to his side. “Much easier than the Valley of Death, I promise.”

Chumps stalked ahead of them, pushing sulkily past Baines the butler where he held open the heavy door. Adjusting his grip on the cases, Fitz offered the other man an apologetic grimace. He hadn’t yet grown used to the cavalier way one treated the servants. “Happy Christmas, Baines.”

“And to you sir, madam. May I take your luggage? Your wraps?”

Even as he spoke he divested them of the aforementioned items, bundling Fitz, Jean, and Chumps into the drawing room with no obvious effort. Sir Robert turned delightedly at the sound of the door, sloshing tea from the cup he held into its saucer. “Fitz, my boy, thank God you’re here at last. The paper’s all wrong about the Maginot Line, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, they are, but may I introduce my mother first?” Pulling her in front of him, he gave her arm a squeeze before indicating the people clustered around the tea table. “Mrs. Jean Fitz, Sir Robert, Mrs. Simmons.”

Edith left her place and came to shake hands politely. “Mrs. Fitz, charmed I’m sure. You’ve met Cynthia?”

“Yes,” Jean said, the nervous quaver in her voice apparent to him, but he thought not anyone else. “We had that pleasure at the station.”

“Quite a small party, you see.” Edith shrugged apologetically. “Another year would have found us more gay, but…”

“Small parties are nicer, I think,” Jean said when it became clear a response was required.

“Do you? Well, perhaps you’re right.” Edith turned to the table, indicating his mother to follow. “Now, I’ve been thinking. You’re from Glasgow, aren’t you? I had a very dear friend in school who lived there. Were you at all acquainted with Amelia Ferguson?”

His mother shot him a stricken glance, obviously unprepared to explain that the circles she ran with in Glasgow were more likely acquainted with Amelia Ferguson’s laundry. Fitz moved to help her, but as he did so Sir Robert clapped him by the shoulder and pulled him to the masculine side of the table. “It simply doesn’t seem like it will be strong enough against machine guns and tanks.”

Still eyeing his mother, Fitz began obediently as he poured out some tea. “Well, sir, yes and no. It’s not defense against weapons, exactly.”

Sir Robert frowned and handed Fitz the sugar tongs. “What is it exactly, then?”

Taking a hasty sip of tea, Fitz tried to think of the quickest way to explain so he could rescue his floundering mother. Before he could speak, though, a high nasal voice weaseled into the conversation, causing both men to jump. “Because it’s adequate for today’s weapons but not the advanced stuff MI’s working on, isn’t that right?”

Blinking owlishly at Chumps, who he wasn’t aware had trailed him to this conversation, he shook his head. Of course she was technically correct, but as the Project was still classified it hadn’t been what he meant. “Just the opposite, actually. The danger posed is in the old-fashioned method of manpower.”

“But what about France?” Chumps pressed, “their army is the best in the world.”

Fitz sighed. He had suffered through versions of this conversation for the last six months and knew from painful experience that there would be no excusing himself politely for the foreseeable future. Fortunately, about the time they got to Czechoslovakia Jemma returned, brushing snow off her hair and making a beeline towards them—whether for him or the tea he wasn’t sure. He handed her the cup he had made for her without breaking his line of thought, and met her gaze squarely before flicking it towards the women bunched together on the sofas. Message received, she left him feeling slightly deprived and went to save his mother. Thank God for her, he thought as he watched her settle in beside Jean, but when was he going to have a chance to speak with her at _all_ , forget alone?

Not, as it turned out, until after dinner at least. Their respective conversations continued until it was time to dress for dinner, at which he found himself stranded between Edith and Chumps. The two of them appeared to be in the middle of a long-standing discussion carried out mostly in oblique references from the aunt and sullen monosyllables from the niece, neither of which he could participate in but too loud to ignore entirely. Bored to tears despite the fine meal coursing in front of him, he allowed his mind to wander to the happy event he hoped was now only a few hours away as he fingered the ring in his pocket. His speech was word perfect and he had practiced kneeling—one knee, he had decided, from practicality and not the position of his soul before her—and, with every confidence she would say yes, he began at last to wonder about what would come next. Sir Robert had been extremely welcoming, but Edith was a bit more of an enigma. There was a certain look in her eye whenever they met that firmly reminded him of Queen Victoria in her later, “we are not amused” period. Even now, turning to his mother with an opening salvo about her desire to have a pair of corgis like the Royal Family, she was able to pin him in place with nothing more than her peripheral vision. Fitz gulped and ducked his head, jamming his hand further into his pocket.

“What have you got there, Mr. Fitz?”

“Nothing.” He returned his hand to his knife hastily, avoiding Chumps’s dark, raven-like speculation. “It’s only a—a talisman. Nothing important.”

She grabbed at his wrist, forestalling his attempt to fill his mouth and avoid further conversation. “Let me see!” she demanded, “I’m passionately fond of talismans.”

“Maybe later,” he muttered, wrenching his arm away. She retreated with a mumbled “beast!”, granting him enough respite to sneak a glance down the table. Jemma was laughing at something her father had said, but when she felt his eyes on her she turned just enough to include him in the shimmer of her happiness. He caught and held it, feeling its warmth work through his tense muscles and nerves. Even his mouth relaxed, offering her a tiny smile in return. No matter how ghastly this weekend was, as long as she was nearby he could never be truly bad off.

As always, the ladies retired from the table before the men were allowed to follow. Thankfully, whether from pity or selfish reasons of his own, Sir Robert kept the required Boys’ Booze Time short, eyeing Fitz with not a little sympathy as he closed up the humidor. Fitz bolted across the hall and into the drawing room, heedless of the spectrum of shocked and disapproving looks from the others. Even Baines, holding the heavy silver coffee tray, appeared to be giving an aristocratic sniff. He didn’t care, though, because the only person that mattered was more amused than anything else, her brown eyes dancing and glinting in the light of the fire behind her. “Eager for coffee, Fitz?” she asked aloud, her smirk asking something else entirely.

He moved to stand by her, wincing a little at the heat against the back of his legs. “No, it’s too warm already. Let’s go for a walk.”

“A walk?” She turned to look at him, the incredulity in her voice only slightly less pitched than the slope of her eyebrow. “Fitz, really. In this weather.”

He followed the line of her extended arm to the French doors, which had been covered by heavy, cranberry-colored drapes. “Er, Simmons, the weather is not immediately apparent—”

“It’s below freezing and snowing, Fitz, as is only proper for a nearly Christmas night.”

Both of which she had complained to him about on more than one occasion, citing her poor circulation but really, he thought, just disliking the process of dressing for the cold. Well, that threw a wrench into his perfect plans. How had he forgotten to check the weather report before getting his hopes up? Not yet willing to let them go, he tried ignorance. “Right,” he said, “so we ought to appreciate it—”

“—which we do by staying _indoors_ and maintaining core body temperature.”

“You could put on a coat,” he mumbled, already knowing he was beaten.

She twisted her hand into his and pressed it, the gesture going a long way to stoke his patience, then twined her fingers through his and tugged him towards the folding tables Baines and the parlormaid were assembling. “Compromise,” she said, “we don’t have to stand in front of the fire, but I’d rather not go out tonight. Anyway, Fitz, is it really polite to abandon the party on the first evening?”

He was about to argue that their entire relationship was the result of just such bad behavior when he realized what she meant: his poor mother was perched precariously on the edge of both the sofa and the conversation, sipping at her coffee every half-second on average and making a wretched face as she swallowed. As he watched, Sir Robert turned to ask her a kind question and she nearly dropped the cup before stammering an answer. Fitz recognized the response as easily as if he had been in her place. “Exactly,” Jemma said with a brisk nod, not letting go when she sat down. Their hands swung between them until he collapsed in the chair beside her. “It’s better to stay in, I think.”

“You’re right—”

“—as always.”

Her self-satisfied smirk tended to irritate him, but tonight he was too besotted for normal reactions. He couldn’t help himself, really. Not only was she brilliant, not only was she beautiful, but she was kind and considerate and kept him from being the worst version of himself, even when she didn’t realize she was doing so. He had known her long enough to know she wasn’t perfect—her refusal to fall in line with his plan only the latest example—but he wouldn’t want her to be, not anything other than what she was. His hand went to his pocket as if by reflex. It didn’t have to be the Icehouse, did it? He could just lop that bit off his speech? But that would unbalance the whole thing and destroy the conclusion. No. He would wait. Leaning back in the chair, he tightened his grip before releasing her hand. “How’s your work?”

Her eyes brightened even more and her smirk turned into an outright beam. He grinned in response, unable to stop himself in the face of one of his favorite of her expressions. “Oh, Fitz, it’s so exciting. The preliminary results are more positive than I could have hoped; I really think I’ll be able to begin the paper before next term begins.”

“What will you do with the extra time?” Plan a wedding, he fervently hoped.

“What extra time? There’s an entire avenue I haven’t even glanced at. Professor Weaver is cautiously optimistic, but I’m fairly confident that this is going to be revolutionary.”

“What else could it be?”

“True,” she agreed, matter-of-fact. “If it worked as I expected, it was going to be tremendously important. Of course, if it had gone bust, I would have been very embarrassed.”

“It wouldn’t have gone bust. Has anything you’ve worked on ever gone bust?”

Finally catching the compliment he was trying to give her, she ducked her head. “Well, literally, quite often.”

“Has she ever told you about her beer bombs, Mr. Fitz?”

He turned to look at Chumps, as settled in a third seat at the table as if she had grown there. Did the girl walk like normal people or just float about from place to place? “I’m not—”

“It’s a scream, really. I can’t believe she hasn’t mentioned it before.”

Jemma shifted in her chair, tucking her hair behind her ear. “It hasn’t ever come up. Fitz wouldn’t find it interesting, anyway.”

“Of course he would. It’s about you, isn’t it?” Chumps had a point, but the diabolical glint in her eye coupled with Jemma’s obvious discomfort combined to convince him that this was a story he could do without hearing.

“Oh, I don’t—”

But Chumps refused to listen, launching into what was objectively a very funny story about a young Jemma’s experiments with fermentation that ended in a series of explosions during a dinner party in the Home Secretary’s honor. He would have enjoyed the yarn about anyone else, but since Jemma curled herself tighter and tighter with every sentence from her cousin’s mouth, his enjoyment decreased apace. Tapping her foot under the table in solidarity, he cut Chumps off sharply when she appeared ready to begin another embarrassing anecdote. “How interesting, especially when you know that we’re doing similar experiments today.” The two women looked at him skeptically. As it was a white lie at best, he changed the subject in a rush. “Er, perhaps we might work a puzzle? Last time I was here I was doing one, but I never finished it. I hate leaving things undone.”

“Marvelous idea, Fitz.” Jemma stood, clapping her hands together. “Perhaps the others would care to join us?”

And they hastily decamped, leaving Chumps at the table with a black cloud over her head. _I’m sorry_ , he offered, and Jemma shook her head in response. _No matter._

But it did matter, Fitz thought as they spent the next two hours awkwardly jamming together pieces that didn’t match. Perhaps it was only natural that Chumps would rather spend her evening with people closer to her age, but if that was the case one would think she would make more of an effort to be pleasant. Instead, she answered Jemma’s attempts at conversation with withering scorn and began discussions of her own in which she was clearly out of her depth but refused to back down from her ill-supported positions. Jemma’s lips were pursed so hard they were nearly a pucker. Thank goodness his mother was gracious, because Fitz felt his temper gaining an exponentially stronger foothold as the night dragged on. By the time Edith finally released everyone to retire for the evening, he was seriously considering the advisability of proposing for no other reason than to change the topic of conversation.

He didn’t get a chance to speak more than a few words to Jemma before they separated at the top of the stairs: “breakfast tomorrow?” he asked, and she quirked a tired half-smile.

“I’m worn thin; I’m planning not to wake until I can see the sun. Is that all right?”

“What is that, eight?” At her nod, he shrugged. “I can probably be up that early. For you.”

As it was now nearly midnight and he had been up far earlier that morning than was his wont, he was perhaps being overly optimistic. Then again, perhaps not. Despite the utter exhaustion he felt dragging down his eyelids as he pulled on his pajamas and fell into bed, he found himself waking up throughout the night, dragged from his dreams by the overwhelming sense of glee that filled his chest. Each time, he rolled over to look at the ring resting on his bedside table. Tomorrow, he thought each time, tomorrow. Would it _never_ come?

Of course, as these things often do, it came when he wasn’t expecting it. He tumbled out of bed at twelve after eight, grabbing whatever clothes he could lay hands on and giving his hair a lick and a promise before running down the stairs to the dining room. He knew that Verinder Hall ate early—his mother was often at breakfast by half past six—and he wanted to be sure to catch Jemma alone. It would be no small task to lure her to the Icehouse, but he might have a better chance if he could use multiple means of persuasion. Not to mention they would rather enjoy themselves for the first time that holiday.

Unfortunately, he didn’t even have to open the door to hear that his beautiful plan had already been spoiled. Chumps’s strident tones were clear as a bell.

“Oh, no, I hate comedies, they aren’t funny at all.”

Jemma’s voice was thin, but still pleasant. “Well, Fitz and I recently saw _Storm in a Teacup_ and quite enjoyed it—”

“Did he?” Fitz rather had the impression that Chumps doubted Jemma’s understanding and his masculinity simultaneously. “Crime thrillers are the only thing worth watching. I like the ones with murders best, but robberies are nearly as good.”

He steeled himself and opened the door, determined to act the gallant knight and save Jemma from anymore of this wretched girl’s conversation. From the grateful look she shot him it wasn’t a moment too soon. “Ready, Jemma?”

“Of course!” She stood instantly, throwing her napkin on the table in front of her.

Chumps stood too, wavering uncertainly. “What are you doing?”

“We’re going for a walk,” he said, “a long one, in the bitter cold, probably nothing you would enjoy, Ch—Cynthia. It may be hours.”

Jemma’s smile grew brittle, but she backed him up like the brick she was. “And errands! We’ve got heaps of things to do for my mother, all very dull but essential. You’d be far better off staying here.”

“I don’t—” Chumps began, but Jemma was already halfway out the door and Fitz had only enough time to send the girl a fair copy of an apologetic smile before she shut it firmly behind them.

“My hero,” Jemma whispered, not moving more than a few inches away. “But where are we to hide? She’ll poke her nose everywhere.”

Drawing her away from the door with a gentle touch at her back, he scratched his neck with his other hand. “Er. I thought we might actually going on a walk?”

“Ug, Fitz!” Her forehead wrinkled in dismay and disgust. “It’s still so cold out.”

“But the sun is up,” he wheedled, “and no one will follow us there. We can hide for ages. And be alone.”

He said the last two words in what he hoped was a highly significant tone, though he had been known to miss that mark before. This time, though, as her gaze dropped from his eyes to his mouth and she turned the soft pink of a seashell, he rather thought he could congratulate himself on a success. “All right,” she agreed, slightly strangled, “I suppose we can always rely upon the second law of thermodynamics if it gets too frigid.”

He helped her on with not one but two coats and wrapped a woolen scarf around her nose and mouth—a necessity he sorely regretted—before leading the way into the back gardens. The snow, while lighter than last night, hadn’t stopped, and flakes drifted down the back of his collar and gathered in her hair. Despite the heavy snowfall, he was surprised to find that the paths were clear.

“Of course,” she said when he commented on it, “Bucket shovels them out whenever there’s snow. We’d be willing to let it pass, but he says that it makes more work for him in the spring. He’s a bit tyrannical about the gardens.” Her laugh got caught in the wool. “I wouldn’t have agreed otherwise; can you imagine trying to fight our way through knee-high drifts?”

“It wouldn’t have been that high,” he protested. “And, if I’m not enough of a reason, wouldn’t you have been desperate enough to escape Chumps?”

“Oh, Chumps,” she sighed.

He nodded vigorously. “Forgive my allusion to unpleasant events, but do you have any relations worth the name?”

“Well, my father at least,” she said stiffly. Before he could reassure her that naturally he hadn’t meant that, she went on. “And Chumps isn’t so bad. She’s just…” Jemma held one hand up, palm to the sky. “Fourteen. She’s fourteen. Girls are rather unbearable at that age—to themselves and everyone else. And she’s having difficulty at school. I feel rather sorry for her, actually, when I’m not actually in her company.”

“Jemma,” he said, “let’s not talk about Chumps, if it’s all right with you.”

“All right,” she agreed easily, “what would you rather talk about?”

What he would rather talk about he could not yet broach, but he hadn’t actually planned discussion leading up to it. He opened his mouth, searching for something, and closed it again when he drew a blank.

“We have to talk about something or my teeth will chatter nearly out of my head. It’s excessively cold out here, Fitz.” Snowflakes clung to her eyelashes as she blinked up at him irritably, and he thought, not for the first time, that she couldn’t possibly be any more beautiful than she was right now.

“I know,” he said, “but it’ll be worth it, I promise.”

Burrowing her chin further into her scarf, she resembled nothing so much as a brooding bird. “We might have stayed inside, cozily tucked up by the fire, but you insisted on dragging me out for a walk through the dead gardens in the middle of a blizzard.”

“It isn’t a blizzard.”

“It’s positively indecent,” she said, ignoring him, “that you aren’t cold right now. How are you not cold, Fitz?”

Excitement had a way of doing that to a man, from what he understood, but as the reason for his excitement was at present a secret from Jemma he didn’t say so. Instead, he reached carefully into his pocket and pulled out his gloves. “Glasgow is colder than this in the winter. Here, put my gloves on over yours. That will help.”

“I can’t take your gloves, Fitz.”

“I’m not even using them.”

“Well, you ought to be! How can you work if you lose a finger to frostbite?”

As he was often on the end of her fondly irritated eyerolls, it was refreshing to give her one for a change. “First, Simmons, as long as I don’t lose my index finger or my thumb, I will manage. Second, we won’t be out here long enough for that. Third, recall I have a company that does almost nothing but make things that come out of my head, so even if I _did_ lose use of my hands for some reason, I would still be able to work.”

Her _I-am-not-amused-by-you-no-really_ smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, and she offered a matching eyeroll as she snatched the gloves. “Well then. As you insist on a march through this arctic climate, I shall take advantage of your generosity, however ill-advised it is.” Gloves on, she pulled down her scarf long enough to stand on tip-toe and press a warm kiss to his admittedly cold cheek. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

His heart stopped a little, as it always did—seven months on, and her kisses were still a jolt—and he reached out to catch her before she could move away. “Only,” he said, “I know we’ve been together, but I feel like I haven’t seen you. I just wanted a little time to ourselves.”

She rested her head on his shoulder for a second, just long enough to warm him thoroughly, before giving him that deep, quiet look that never failed to remind him that he was the luckiest man in the world. “In that case,” she said, “I’ll be happy to stay out here until my extremities fall off. You wouldn’t throw me over if I didn’t have a nose, wouldn’t you?”

As if there was a question about it. “Nose, no. Might have to reconsider if you didn’t have a mouth.”

Smirking, she ran her fingers down his arm to take his hand and pulled him down the path towards the hedge maze. The snow-sheathed branches offered none of the protection of summer, but would still do for what he knew she had in mind. He followed eagerly, more than ready to have his cake and eat it too. He wasn’t alone. She hardly made it around the first bend before stopping to draw his head down to hers. Double-gloved hands warmed his exposed neck and his bare, slightly chilly ones went automatically to their now-usual place at her back, tugging her closer and holding her up as she reminded him, yet again, that her mouth was magical for more than one reason.

“Mm, Fitz,” she murmured eventually, her breath catching a little as he nudged his nose under the scarf by her ear, “Fitz, you’re doing an admirable job, but I’m still rather cold. Might we retire someplace a _bit_ more sheltered? The garage, maybe?”

Difficult as it was to maintain linear, rational thought when his every sense was filled with her, he hazily recalled that his plan, if put into effect, would result in something even better than this and managed to pull together the correct words to enter phase two. “Not the garage,” he said into her neck, following it with a kiss. “The Icehouse.”

“The Icehouse?” She pulled back enough to let him see her raised eyebrows. “It won’t be warmer than here. It’s just a stone building now.”

“There’s a roof.”

“True, but—”

Rather than let her finish her sentence, he took her face in his hands and kissed her deeply, only moving to place a supportive arm at her back when he felt her begin to wobble against him. He felt rather light-headed himself when he finally released her, relishing the flutter of her eyelashes against her cheeks and the contented smile that graced her lips. “Please, Jemma. The Icehouse.”

“I must say,” she said without opening her eyes, “that’s an extremely unfair method of persuasion. I’ve half a mind to refuse on principle.”

“No, really?” he yelped, willing his heart to start beating properly again. So help him, if they came this far and the plan went to pieces—

“But only half.” The look she sent him was enough to melt snow, and her hand in his as she lead the way to her old lab sent sparks from his fingers to his heart and back again. Soon. Soon.

It took both of them to shove open the heavy wooden door, swelled in its frame by the water the fire brigade threw at it last summer. “Don’t need a key anymore,” he grunted, shoulder up against it.

“Nothing in it to lock up,” she replied, slipping a little on the snow as she pressed the length of her back into the wood. Then it gave way all at once and they went tumbling into the nearly-empty room, catching themselves on each other before they could fall into the piles of ashes that still coated the floor. Righting herself, Jemma gave his arm an absent-minded pat before letting go, crossing her arms in front of her protectively. “It’s a bit dismal, isn’t it?”

Fitz looked around the grey, dead room, remembering the Cave of Wonders it had been the first time she had offered him entrance. He hadn’t been here since the fire and hadn’t quite realized that _everything_ had been destroyed—the table where they had worked, the centrifuge he had rebuilt for her, the cupboards and shelves full of her adolescent projects.

“I haven’t, um, I haven’t been in here. Since.”

Her voice was quiet but loud in the stillness, and he wanted to kick himself. How idiotic, not to remember that for her this place signified a loss as well as a gain. “I’m sorry,” he said, reaching out but stopping just short of her shoulder. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No, Fitz, it’s all right.” She turned to him, pressing the tips of her fingers to her eyes to keep in her tears. “I’m sorry, of course, but when I remember that one of these dust-piles could have been you—and, then, if this hadn’t happened, who knows when I would have had the courage—”

“But still,” he said, “still, it was important to you.”

She smiled and moved to brush her shoulder against his. “Not as important as you are. Anyway, my periodic table was out of date.”

Sometime, he thought, she’d have to let herself be sad about things, but for now he was content to let it rest. Wrapping his arm around her waist, he tugged at the end of her scarf with the other hand. “Maybe you’ll get a new one for Christmas. Not from me, though. My present is much more exciting than that.”

“I can’t wait.”

It was the perfect opportunity. Now was the time to act. Now. “Jemma,” he started, letting go her scarf to push back his overcoat and reach into his pocket for the ring. The pocket he usually kept it in was empty, so he tried the one above. “About that—”

She didn’t seem to hear him, staring musingly into the corner. “If you think about it, Fitz, we wouldn’t even be here without the Icehouse.”

“I know,” he said, coming up empty in the second pocket as well and going for the larger pocket on his other side.

“We first spoke here, really spoke—we became partners here—decided we were friends—”

He heard her words through a reddish haze, panic creeping across his field of vision. Here she was, essentially giving his speech for him, and here he was, fingertips brushing against the silken seam of every single pocket he had. Empty. Empty. Empty. Not in his overcoat pockets, not in his jacket, or his trousers, or the tiny pocket barely worthy of the name that was supposed to hold a pocket square—where was it?

“And, of course, though it was technically at Lola that we said it, we wouldn’t have known without what happened here—Fitz.”

He stopped patting himself down to find her staring at him, both hands on her hips and a vaguely irritated expression on her face. “What are you doing?” she demanded, “did you see an insect? Because I can assure you, everything is dead at this time of year.”

“No, I—” Blast, what could he say? “I’m just—”

“Looking for,” she prompted.

“Yes!”

“Looking for what, Fitz?”

He bent down to check the cuffs of his trousers, on the off chance. “Nothing! It’s just—”

“Not nothing.”

“Nothing I can tell you, then,” he tried desperately, going over all the pockets again.

“Can I help you find it?”

“No!” He batted away her outstretched hands, then ground the heels of his hands into his eyes and tried to remember the last time he had seen it. This morning, wouldn’t it have been? He would have put it in his pocket when he dressed? Or was that just every other morning for the last three months?

“I’m only trying to help, Fitz.”

He glanced up through his fingers, struck to the bone by the chill in her voice. She had pulled away and, worse, pulled in, curving her shoulders and grasping one wrist with the other hand. Oh, lord, he was making a mess of everything, not just the plan. Groaning, he buried his face all the way in his hands. “No, Jemma, I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

“It certainly sounds like—”

“No, only, it’s supposed to be a surprise. A secret. It’s Christmas, after all.”

She only threw a “hmm” through the firm barricade of her lips. He had well and truly stepped in it. Approaching slowly, one hand held out to her, he added, “I thought it was in my pocket, but I must have left it in my room. I’m sure it’s there. I’m sorry.”

“Well,” she asked, each word chipped from the ice hanging from the eaves, “do you need to go look for it right now?”

_Yes_. “No. It can”—he nearly choked on the word—“wait.”

She canted her head to one side, narrowing her eyes in the same way she examined her specimens. Knowing he deserved it, he didn’t squirm. “All right,” she said finally, her shoulders dropping back to their usual position. “There’s no need to treat me like that when I’m only trying to help, but I suppose you’re sorry enough. You may approach the bench.”

He never had thought she looked like Sir Robert before, but as he hurried to her to prove his regret and repentance, he thought he knew how pardoned prisoners felt. They stayed in the Icehouse until he could feel her fingers through both pairs of gloves, by which time he had managed to silence the shrieking alarm in his head to a moderate alert. He had been in a hurry this morning, after all. Surely he had just neglected to put it in his pocket. Surely, it would be waiting for him on the bedside table.

But when he went to his room to divest himself of his wet things, the ring was nowhere to be found.


	2. Christmas Eve

Fitz stared at the table for a minute, unable to process, before falling on the freshly-made bed like a madman. He had woken up more than once with the ring clenched in his hand—maybe he had dropped it in his sleep last night and it had accidently gotten tucked up in the covers. Stripping the bed down to the striped mattress, he shook out each blanket and sheet until he was sure the ring wasn’t caught in a fold, then shook it once more for good measure. Nothing. Perhaps it had been flung out in his mad search and rolled? He dropped to his hands and knees, desperate for his torch and not finding it, and began the painstaking process of combing every square inch of carpet. Including under the bed and bureau, not to mention the two chairs and the decoratively carved chest—he had thought being placed in Hawk was a privilege, but at present it was feeling rather more like a curse. He was halfway under the high bed, scooting forward on his belly like a snake, when his mother’s voice made him jerk up and hit his head against the frame.

His mother always walked quietly, as if asking permission, so her tug at his trouser leg came as a surprise. “Son, what are you doing under there? Jemma’s looking for you. She says you were going to do something with Sir Robert?”

He groaned, resting his forehead on the carpet to ease the throbbing. “I can’t find it, Mam.”

“Find what?”

“The ring! I know I had it last night but I don’t know where it is now!” He heard and hated the petulant tone in his voice, but he couldn’t help it. “Mam, what if I can’t find it?”

“You’ll buy another one,” she said, pulling at his leg again. “Come out from there.”

There was no disobeying that tone, so he awkwardly pulled himself out by the bed leg and rolled into a sitting position, blinking against the light. “But I can’t give it to her now if I can’t find it.”

“You don’t have to have a ring to propose, son. Your father didn’t have one for me.”

“That was wartime.”

She threw her hands up in the air. “And it was unimportant! I wanted to marry him and would have said yes if he had asked by telegram.”

“Shh!” He leapt to his feet, batting down her words with his hands. “She doesn’t know,” he continued in a whisper, “I’d like to keep it that way.”

“You’re being ridiculous, Leopold Fitz.”

Sinking onto the edge of the bed, he crossed his arms in front of him. “Well, that’s a nice thing to say when I’ve just lost the key to my future happiness. Mam, _help_ me. What else can I try? What about whoever made the bed?”

“Maud,” Jean said.

“Maud!” he repeated, jumping up again, “that’s perfect, she was the one that found—well, um—”

Maud had been the poor housemaid to happen upon his uncle’s body and thus had sat cheek-by-jowl with Fitz in various courtrooms throughout the entire legal process. For obvious reasons there hadn’t been a good deal of convivial chat, but at least he knew who she was and wouldn’t have to bring anyone else into this little fiasco. Leaving his sentence unfinished, he bent to gather up the bedclothes and dump them back on the mattress. “I’ll go find her, then. Will you distract Jemma for me?”

His mother bit her lip. “I can _try_ ,” she said dubiously, “but I don’t think I can hold her for long.”

He pressed a quick thank you to her cheek and hurried off, checking his watch hastily. Half-past-nine—still plenty of hours in the day to fix this. Surely Maud could help him. He felt confident.

Finished doing up the bedrooms, Maud had retired to the butler’s pantry and was up to her elbows in silver polish when Fitz finally found her thirty minutes later. He rested his hands against the edge of the table and leaned forwards, gasping pathetically. “Maud. I’ve got—did you—”

“Do you need some water, sir?” she asked, and he waved her off.

“No, no. Question. Did you do up Hawk this morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Made the bed, dusted, ran the Hoover—”

“Yes, sir. Once it was empty.” Maud’s eyes squinted suddenly, but her hands didn’t pause their buffing and smoothing. “Can I help you with something, sir?”

Breath back, he placed his hands on his hips and tried to project a bit more authority. “I’m missing something of mine, something valuable. It was on my side table last night but it isn’t there now.”

Her eyes grew wide. “Sir, I—”

“I’ve had all the clothes off the bed and looked under all the furniture and I can’t seem to find it. I thought you might know.”

Then, to his shock and dismay, she burst into tears. “Oh, sir, I didn’t—I swear I never—I’m always that careful—”

Digging in his pocket for a handkerchief with no success, he snatched up a mostly clean rag and handed it hastily over. “I don’t think you could break it. Only it’s the most important thing I own right now and—”

In response, she buried her face in the cloth and wailed louder. Fitz shot a worried glance towards the door to the kitchen, past which the formidable cook could be seen passing back and forth with an increasingly dark expression. “Maud, Maud,” he tried desperately, “I only thought you might—”

Between hiccoughing sobs, she managed to squeak out, “I _swear_ , sir, I didn’t touch anything that isn’t always there.”

“It wasn’t there?” he repeated stupidly, mind whirring as he mentally retraced his steps of the night before. He had been exhausted, yes, but not so tired he would forgo emptying his pockets before bed—that was second-nature, a long-standing practice from the days when his habit of keeping screws and pebbles in his pockets wreaked havoc on his mother’s wringer. No, the ring _must_ have been somewhere in the room. But how could Maud have missed it? He frowned, tapping thoughtfully at the table. “That’s not possible.”

A fresh set of wails filled the air and the cook hurried into the tiny room, brandishing a wooden spoon. “That’s quite enough, sir, Maudie’s a good girl and if she says she didn’t see anything she didn’t. She needs to get back to her work now.” And then she actually took Fitz by his upper arm and firmly propelled him into the stone corridor. “Tea is upstairs, sir, or you can ring if you need anything. But Maudie’s very busy today.”

It was a clear dismissal and he took it as such, beating a hasty retreat up the stairs and into the hall. Still thinking furiously, he would have run bodily into Jemma had she, heavily laden with a heap of cream-colored fabric, not run into him first.

“Fitz! Where have you been?”

He waved vaguely. “Kitchen.”

“Of course!” She blew a hair out of her face, the somewhat perturbed tilt of her eyebrows turning sympathetic. “Why didn’t your mother just say? Poor Fitz, you didn’t have any breakfast. I hope they were able to find you something.”

Now she mentioned it he was ravenous, but he could hardly arrange a tray now, not with the cook cross at him. The slightly queasy ooze in his stomach made the idea less than palatable, anyway. “But tea’s up here?” he said instead, taking her armful from her. “What is all this, Simmons?”

“Yes, tea, and it’s my great-grandmother’s wedding dress.”

Fitz nearly dropped the bundle. “Wha—why?”

“My mother discovered your mother is interested in fine work and thought she might like to see it. It’s got hundreds of seed pearls and the lace is exquisite.” She ran a gentle hand over the silky fabric. “I think she’s really trying to be kind, Fitz. It’s difficult, because they haven’t anything in common, but she isn’t as stiff as I expected. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”

“Of what?”

“Of—” She stopped, slightly pink, and shook her head. “Never mind. Let me get the door for you.”

As the ladies marveled at the tiny stitches and intricate detail he gulped down three hasty cups of tea, listened vaguely to Sir Robert try to have a conversation with Chumps, and wracked his brain for his next steps. Normally at this point he would turn to the one person he couldn’t consult—he needed her help, his second set of eyes, to see what he was missing. Over the past months he had become so used to her brain working in tandem with his that now, bereft of it, he wasn’t quite sure what to do. _Well, what would she say?_ he asked himself.

 _Take all possibilities into account_ , her voice in his head told him, and he began a list:

  1. Ring is somewhere in his room (unlikely at this point).
  2. Ring is not in his room. 
    1. Ring was taken out intentionally.
    2. Ring was taken out unintentionally.
    3. Ring fell out of his pocket at some point.



When he reached point (c), he had to physically resist smacking his palm against the French door. Of course! His gloves. It must have dropped from his pocket when he gave Jemma his gloves. Poor thing, lying cold and abandoned under a fresh blanket of snow—

Fitz gasped. Deep in thought, he had been staring out the window for who knew how long without remembering that last night’s snow had continued. Gravel paths that had been clear a few hours ago and were now coated with a thick layer of white, powdery fluff. And it was still coming down, looked like, neatly blotting out all traces of their excursion and burying his hope of happiness. Resting his forehead against the glass, he heaved out a tragic, frosty fog.

“Fitz?”

He turned to find Jemma watching him worriedly, her eyebrows crinkled in concern. Sir Robert, who he had thought was right next to him, was nowhere in sight. “Are you all right?” she asked, moving close enough to brush her fingers against the back of his hand.

He gripped her fingers for half a second, all he would allow himself, and gestured forlornly. “It’s snowing.”

“It should stop in time for us to get back, according to the papers.”

“I know, but.” He sighed again.

Her reflection drew its lips together firmly. “You weren’t thinking of going for another walk, were you?”

“No,” he said, fully aware that there was only one answer to a question posed in that Edith-esque tone.

“Good, because even for you I don’t think I’d do it again.” Then her mother’s face melted off her features and her smile, his smile, returned. “Come play Monopoly with us, Fitz.”

“You know I have philosophical objections to Monopoly,” he grumbled, staring fixedly at the white piles growing seemingly by the second.

“Oh, yes, I know—the only captain of industry to want less control of the market. But if it’s not Monopoly it’s bridge, and that seems—”

He grabbed her wrist and spun from the doors. “Never mind, I love Monopoly. Can I be the battleship?”

“Actually, Mother’s always the battleship. But I’ll let you have the racecar if you like.”

Fitz settled for the cannon and took a place at the table, managing to snatch the last seat to face the French doors. Unfortunately that placed him between Edith, calmly parceling out the bank notes, and Chumps, who had slid into the seat nearly as Jemma was sitting down. He carefully ignored the significant way Jemma’s eyes darted to the empty chair beside her. Any other time he wouldn’t dream of undergoing the interminable torture this was likely to be without her by his side, but this time he had no intention of being trapped here. As soon as the snow stopped he was going to extract himself from the game, escape outside, and find that ring if he had to dig through every single snow drift with his bare hands.

Like every other plan he had made so far this week, however, this one collapsed like the tower a bored Sir Robert had made of his property cards. The snow refused to stop. After four turns around the board, he couldn’t pretend not buying properties was strategic and had to start actually playing to get out from under Jemma’s suspicious eyebrows. Worst of all, his second-string plan of faking a business call during lunch came to naught when Edith suggested they have sandwiches over the game rather than stopping for a proper meal. The rest of the party, greedily gloating over stacks of brightly colored notes, readily agreed. _Traitors_ , he thought, glaring at his mother and Jemma. Couldn’t they see he had other things to be doing?

Hungry though he was, the sandwiches—brought up by a red-eyed Maud who stayed as far from him as possible—did little to improve his mood. To be fair, probably nothing less than a sticky pudding could have distracted him from the boiling cauldron of worry and irritation that filled his belly instead. Neither the snow nor the game offered hope of ending anytime soon, and every moment lost was one moment less that he and Jemma got to be engaged. Or—God forbid—one moment _longer_ that they weren’t married. With this horrifying thought in mind, Fitz’s gameplay grew increasingly ruthless. A carefully placed set of hotels took Sir Robert out of the game and gave him all four railroads; from that victory he turned to consolidating his power in the yellow-and-green corner. His mother’s wide-eyed dismay was no hindrance. Neither did he give Jemma any quarter, even when she batted her eyelashes winningly. If he couldn’t bend the elements to his will, he thought grimly as the game stretched into the early afternoon, he would at least be master of this.

He was in the middle of placing the fifth hotel on Marvins Gardens when Chumps, irritated at having to pay out three turns in a row, stomped to the French doors and flung them open. Edith cried out as the bank notes went flying. “Cynthia! You’ll let snow in and ruin the rug!”

“It isn’t snowing anymore,” Chumps said petulantly, “and I’m dying for a breath of fresh air.”

Fitz felt as though he, too, had been dying for a breath of air, as the coolness hitting his face blew away the red-hot haze of frustration he had been possessed by the last few hours. “It’s not snowing?” he asked, rising to peer out into the gloom.

“Close the door,” Edith said firmly, and Chumps obeyed with bad grace. Fitz sat down again, clearheaded once more. He had to get outside, and soon, or it would be too dark to see anything and he would have to wait until tomorrow—as though there would be a chance to search through snowdrifts on Christmas morning. But looking down at the board, he realized he had played himself into a corner. There was now no way for him to logically extricate himself quickly. He might not be able to do it at all, owning as he did two-thirds of the board. But he couldn’t just win and close it out, or Jemma would have another plan and he wouldn’t be able to get away. There was only one thing to do.

When his turn came round again, he shifted in his seat and looked directly at Chumps. “Cynthia,” he said, “You have the only thing left I need on the board.”

“You don’t need anything,” she said, glancing from the side of her eye at her lone property. “Aunt Edith has one of those and Jemma the other.”

“It’s not for a monopoly. I simply must have”—he craned his neck to read her card—“The Strand.”

“Why?” Chumps asked, her confusion mirrored and intensified in his mother’s face across the table.

“It’s, um, it’s lucky.” He ducked his head to avoid Jean’s now-sharp suspicion. “Never won a game without it.”

He had never won a game of Monopoly, period—too impatient—so it didn’t count as a lie. Still, he couldn’t help squirming a little. It was necessary, he told himself, and returned his pleading gaze to Chumps. Hoping his very real desperation would work in his favor, he allowed a little to bleed into his voice. “Please, Cynthia? Name your price.”

Just as he expected, the green-tinted light of greed leapt to her eye as she surveyed his substantial holdings. “Well, I’ll give it to you—as a favor, because I like you. But only if you give me all the railway stations and both your monopolies.”

“Done,” he said, gratefully shoving them over to her and accepting her lone card in return. That transaction made, it was only a matter of time before he handed his last note over to Chumps in relief. “Oh look, I’m out. Pity.”

Jemma crossed her arms in front of her, the corners of her mouth firmly tucked in. “Of course you are; you intentionally sabotaged your chances.”

“No, Jemma,” he protested, getting to his feet, “I really needed Kentucky. Well, I thought I did, at least—much good it did me.” Laughing lightly, he began backing towards the door, moving more quickly when her only response was to purse her lips to a tiny pucker. He was skating on thin ice, he knew, but he couldn’t help it—he couldn’t tell her what he was really up to or it would spoil everything. Still, if he didn’t find the ring soon he would spoil everything between them anyway. Time was of the essence.

He pulled on his coat but didn’t stop for a hat before running outside, hurrying down the path they had taken this morning. The snow came over the tops of his boots, impeding his progress and dashing his hope that this would be a quick process. There was _so much_ snow. Then, too, he wasn’t _quite_ sure where he was looking. Enraptured with Jemma, he hadn’t paid enough attention to their surroundings to be confident what it looked like without several inches of snow covering it. Never mind that, he told himself firmly, he would find it because he had to find it. He would not leave Verinder Hall without proposing, and that was flat.

After making his best guess and pacing off several yards in either direction, Fitz dropped to his knees and began digging. His trousers were sopping wet in about three seconds and his hands went numb after five, but he hardly noticed as he scooped the snow into both hands and watched it sift between his fingers. Nothing in the top layer, as he expected—the ring would likely be caught somewhere between the fresh powder and the frozen crust of last night’s slush. Once he had gone through enough to assure himself his theory was correct, he pushed what was left to the side and began tunneling through the rest like a mole. His suit would never recover, he thought somewhat regretfully, then immediately chastised himself for caring. Suits were replaceable. Jemma was not.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

He shot up out of the snow like a jack-in-the-box, heart pounding. Looming above him like a giant, a wizened man with heavy grey eyebrows drove the tip of his shovel into the piles of snow Fitz had thrown up in front of him. “Mr….Mr. Buck—Bucket?” he tried, suddenly aware that his teeth were chattering.

“Oh, so you know who I am!” the man exclaimed, “then there’s even less reason for you to be rolling around all over my gardens, tromping on the flowers and mucking about with the paving and who knows what else!”

“I’m—I’m not—” Fitz tucked his hands into his armpits and willed himself to stop shivering. “I’m just looking for something I dropped here. Last night. It’s very—”

“Is it my mind if you can’t keep hold of your belongings?” Bucket demanded.

“No, of course not, but—”

Bucket nodded in self-satisfaction. “No. No, it’s not. A man can shovel his own gardens, I expect, without interference from upstart Scots.”

Somewhere in his frozen mind, Fitz had an inkling that the gardener wasn’t supposed to speak to him this way, but since he could hardly find the words to defend his actions finding them to defend himself was a losing prospect. Instead, he clambered to his feet in an attempt to at least look less guilty. “It’s very important, Bucket. It’s a gift for Miss Simmons.”

Vaguely, he recalled that Bucket had once professed a fondness for Jemma; perhaps her name would prove useful. He was sadly disappointed. Bucket merely bent over and began shoveling fiercely, throwing snow over his shoulder in a perfect arc. “And is that my mind either? The more reason for you to not be so careless with it. If I find you’ve crushed my petunias—”

“But won’t they be in the ground?” he asked, rapidly losing grasp of essentials.

In response, Bucket gave him a long, stony glare. Fitz thought he heard a muttered “Idiot city boy” but couldn’t swear to it. And then nothing more was forthcoming, the only sounds the scrape of the shovel and the soft pluff of snow falling. He stood there a minute longer, too cold and fuzzy and miserable to even move. Then, somehow, he pulled himself together enough to speak. “Well, if you find it, don’t tell her,” he said, and turned stiffly to make his bitter way back to the house.

He was even colder by the time he arrived, if such a thing was possible, and his hands were nearly too stiff to open the door. Tumbling into the kitchen passageway, he slumped up against the wall and closed his eyes to take a few deep, warm breaths. The sugary scent of baking combined in his nostrils with his favorite lavender, and a smile drifted across his face as two small hands came to rest on his elbows. “From Hell to Heaven,” he said without opening his eyes.

“Certainly,” Jemma snapped, “if you don’t get out of these wet things immediately, you’ll catch your death.”

Even in his foggy state, the sharp edge of her voice demanded attention. He pried open his eyes with great effort, looking down at her without moving his head. “I thought you didn’t believe you caught colds that way.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Mouth in a tight, straight line, she refused to meet his gaze as she began rubbing her hands over his arm. “Fitz, you’re freezing and dripping; what have you been doing? I thought you weren’t going out again.”

“Had to,” he said, submitting to her ministrations.

“Had to, Fitz? Why?”

“I can’t tell you.”

She sighed, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Go upstairs. You need a hot bath and some tea as soon as possible, and this suit—”

“The suit doesn’t matter,” he said, catching her hand as it smoothed over his sleeve. “Only you.”

“Yes, you’ve made _that_ quite clear, Fitz.” And she pulled away, plunging both hands firmly into her pockets.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” She shook her head as she stomped away. “Bath. Now.”

She was right, of course, as always—he did feel a great deal better thawing out in a bath as hot as he could bear. Well, physically, at least. Once the frost dripped away from his brain he sunk up to his nose in the water, thunking his head on the side of the tub in frustration. Nearly froze to death and he was no further than he was before. The ring could still be outside, freezing into slushy gravel or experiencing the brief pleasure of a flight over Bucket’s shoulder, or it could be inside, languishing unseen under a piece of furniture or—

He sat up sharply, goosebumps springing to his skin. There was another place! Surely the best of all options, the most likely too—he had been stupid not to think of it before. He reached for his bathrobe and flung it around himself without stopping to dry. If the ring was there, and he was rapidly becoming convinced it was, he needed to retrieve it as soon as possible. Then he could stop this sneaking around and dedicate himself to Jemma, which was all he wanted anyway.

Clutching his dripping bathrobe, he flung open the door between the bathroom and Hawk and squeaked at the figure perched on the edge of the unmade bed. “Mam? What are you doing?”

She gestured to the faintly steaming cup on the dresser. “Jemma sent you some cocoa.”

He went off like a shot, gulping down half the cup in one long swallow that warmed him without burning his throat. “Perfect,” he said, not surprised than anything she had a hand in was so. “You didn’t have to wait for me, though. I can take a bath by myself.”

“Oh, certainly.” She nodded. “Luckily, because if I was bathing you I would have been sorely tempted to hold you under until you came to your senses.”

A bit of cocoa dribbled onto the carpet as he gaped at her. “What?”

It was astounding how authoritative she could be when her feet didn’t even touch the floor. “You’re being a fool, son, and you need to stop it.”

“What?” he said again, holding his bathrobe more tightly in a fruitless attempt to keep from feeling emotionally exposed.

“What, what.” Jean crossed her arms in front of her, eyes flashing. “You know what. You’re so focused on the ring that you’re forgetting what it’s for, and you’re hurting Jemma horribly in the process.”

“Hurting Jemma?” he repeated, aghast, “Mam, I would _never—_ ”

“But you are, you great idiot! That poor girl doesn’t know what you’re up to, only that you keep making the smallest excuses to race from her company as fast as your legs can carry you. She doesn’t know if you can’t stand being around her family or if it’s something she’s done or if, heaven forbid, you’ve just decided you don’t care for her anymore—”

“No, never! How could she think that?”

Jean raised both eyebrows, looking at him down her nose. Never mind her nose was technically below his eye line; Fitz felt low enough to get lost in the carpet. For the first time, he considered how his actions of the last few hours appeared: abandoning Jemma at every opportunity, ignoring her relations, ruining what should have been a lighthearted amusement with his strategy and then throwing it away seemingly on a whim. Even last night, trying to get her to go for a walk and ignore the party. No wonder she was angry. Groaning, he put down the cocoa and buried his face in his hands. “What do I do, Mam?”

“Well, you fix it, son.” He heard the rustle of her dress, then quiet steps. Her hand briefly stroked his hair. “Only you know how to do that.”

“But I don’t.”

“You’ve time to figure it out.” Her eyes twinkled when he met them. “You can’t do anything without trousers, and as you’ve managed to soak not one but two pairs you’ll just have to wait until one of them is decent. Don’t you wish you had packed better now?”

Upon returning to the drawing room, warm and freshly pressed, Fitz wasted no time. Swooping into the middle of his two favorite women in the world, he said “Mam, I need Jemma for a moment,” and pulled her towards the door without waiting for a response.

“Oh, now you need me?” she said, yanking her arm away once they were in the hall.

He swallowed, uneasy in the face of the unfamiliar tartness. They were breaking new ground here. “Um, yes.”

“Well, perhaps I’d rather speak with your mother, who manages to consider more than her own feelings and wishes for more than twenty minutes at a time.”

Horrified, he saw tears swell along her eyelashes. “Jemma, sweetheart—”

“ _Don’t_ call me that.”

Instantly arresting his attempted comfort, he shoved both hands awkwardly into his pockets. “All right, I won’t. But I’ll explain, if you let me. Could we—maybe not in the hall?”

She led the way to the billiard room without looking at him, crossing her arms and closing herself off as firmly as he shut the door behind them. _This had better be a good explanation_ , her stern brown eyes said. Fitz took a deep breath and refused to look away. “I’m sorry.”

She didn’t respond.

“I haven’t been behaving very well, and I know it, and I’m sorry.”

“True,” she said, “all that is true. What I’d like to know is why.”

He took another deep breath. “I can’t tell you all of it.”

“Oh, well—”

Taking his life in his hands, he caught her arm as she tried to brush by him. “But I will tell you some of it. The thing, this morning? The thing I lost?” He waited for her tiny nod. “It wasn’t in my room and I’ve been looking for it. It’s very important and I need to find it. But it’s not as important as you are, and I’m sorry that I’ve been acting like it is.”

“It’s not me,” she said, eyes still smarting, “it’s everyone else. I’ve run out of excuses for you. They’re starting to think—even Dad—Fitz, you _know_ I’d rather be with you than anyone, but we can’t ignore everyone else in the meantime.”

“Of _course_ we can’t,” he said, but her next words were already overlapping his.

“Much as I care for you, Fitz, the world doesn’t actually allow us to hide in a cottage in Scotland for the rest of our lives. You can’t sulk or be angry when we have to share each other with other people.”

“I’m not,” he tried. She snorted.

“You’re doing an admirable job pretending then. What other explanation makes use of all the facts?”

“I haven’t been thinking about them at all,” he offered honestly, wincing a little at the bald fact. Was it better? No matter, it was true. “I’ve been a fool, Jemma, and I haven’t understood, but it wasn’t on purpose. I’ve been distracted. It’s just, this thing I’ve lost—if I could tell you, you’d understand—”

“Fitz—” She gave a huff of a laugh, despite the tears that still threatened. “You’ve kept secrets from me and insulted my parents because you can’t _find_ something? How is this _thing_ more important than people?”

It was rather as though she had slapped him to bring him out of hysterics, her words the enormous switch that turned the current from _Fitz’s Perfect Plan_ to _Jemma’s Happiness_. Jean had tried to tell him both on the train and in his bedroom and he, like an idiot, had let it go in one ear and out the other. The ring didn’t matter. Only what it stood for. Only what it signified: him and her, together the whole damn time. How, he asked himself, had he lost sight of that? “It’s not,” he said, and a weight fell from his back. “Of course, it’s not, you’re right, I’m wrong—”

“About time you realized it,” she said petulantly, but her hand found his between them. “You’ve been dreadful. Not like yourself at all.”

“So my mother told me.”

The corner of her mouth tipped up. “I like your mother very much. At least I’ve had her company while you’ve abandoned me.”

He absolutely deserved that. “I’m glad. She likes you too, you know. Not as much as I do, of course, but—”

“Whereas _you_ , my fine fellow, have somewhat damaged your standing today. My father may look as though he’d rather be at the dentist, but at least he stays at the Monopoly table.”

“Oh, no!” Panic seeped into his bones. “Sir Robert’s my ally. I thought for sure I would only have to win over your mother.”

Now the other corner joined its mate. “I think you’ll manage all right with the appropriate groveling.”

“I’ll make it up,” he said promptly. “I swear, the whole rest of the night I won’t leave your side, I’ll give my opinions on corgis and wallpapers, I’ll smoke a cigar if I have to, I’ll listen to every single ill-informed idea Chumps throws out.” Finally, her eyes sparkled with mirth instead of frustration, and he breathed a sigh of relief. “And I’m sorry I can’t tell you what I’m looking for. I will as soon as I can.”

“When?”

Tugging at her hand, he lowered his voice as she stepped closer. “Tonight. I think it might have been vacuumed up this morning. If you’ll tell me where you keep the Hoover, and you don’t mind staying up late, I could really use your help looking for it.”

“There’s an offer a girl can’t refuse,” she said seriously, and kissed him.

After that, Fitz put the ring firmly out of his mind. Either he would find it tonight or he would not; whichever way, he would not let it spoil his plans any further. He fulfilled all his promises and more: insisting on the seat next to Jemma at dinner, acquiescing to Chumps’s demand that it wasn’t fair for him and Jemma to be on the same charades team, playing Mrs. Simmons’s favorite carols on their piano despite its shocking lack of tunefulness. And he was surprised to find, as the night drew on, that it became easier and easier to forget. No longer worried about the rest of his life, he simply enjoyed the present moment. After all, the whole point of marrying Jemma was to _be with_ Jemma for the rest of his life, wasn’t it? Would the evening have been any more meaningful or significant if all had gone according to plan? He doubted it.

That said, the wink she dropped for him as they parted at the top of the stairs sent fire coursing through his veins. The chant began again: soon, soon.

Fifteen minutes later, they crept downstairs on mostly silent, slippered feet. “So clandestine,” Jemma whispered, only barely holding back a giggle. “Anyone would think we were doing something scandalous.”

It certainly _felt_ scandalous, Fitz thought as he tried very hard not to remember that this was the first time (of hopefully many) that he had seen her in pajamas and a dressing gown. They retrieved the Hoover from its closet under the stairs and, once Jemma understood what Fitz intended to do, made their way back to the stone passageway Fitz had rather seen enough of this weekend.

“If you’re going to tear into the bag,” she said, capably covering her hair with a handkerchief, “we’re going to do it somewhere we can sweep up the mess.”

“Certainly,” he grumbled as he eased the tiny screwdriver from his swiss, “and since I’m the one who had to carry it—”

“Fitz!” She rolled shining eyes. “Haven’t you seen the adverts? Housewives thin as twigs carry these up and down stairs without breaking a sweat.” Wrinkling her nose, she looked down at the sack he had just split open. “This is my responsibility, I suppose.”

“I have to take apart the works in case it got trapped.”

“The clean bit of the job, of course.”

“As if that’s any worse than a goopy cadaver.”

“Fair point,” she said cheerily, and dug in with both hands. “But you haven’t told me what I’m looking for yet.”

“If you find it,” he said, “you’ll know.”

They chatted as they worked, in whispers at first and then, as their conversation grew more impassioned, at nearly normal volume. Not that they were talking about anything to argue about, or even very important—it was only that, with her, the thoughts came too quickly to worry about modulating them. Deep in discussion, he kept forgetting what his hands were doing, and he was far more likely to use the screwdriver to puncture a point than for its intended use. She, carefully cataloging the bits of things she found in the mess of dust and dirt, was just as easily distracted. “Is this it, Fitz?” she asked, offering a chewed up bit of rubber on her palm for his inspection.

He poked it with the tip of the tool. “I certainly hope not. It would have had to undergo a metamorphosis mere bristles and suction cannot explain. If that’s it your Hoover is magic.”

Their peals of laughter echoed in the corridor despite their attempts to cover them, the late night making everything more amusing. Until, that is, the overhead light flicked on and Edith Simmons boomed out, “May I ask what in heaven’s name you two are doing?”

Fitz made to jump up but got tangled in his legs. Jemma, always more graceful, rose to her knees with some measure of dignity. “Fitz lost something and thought it might have been caught in the Hoover accidentally. I’m helping him look.”

Edith swept down the passageway, all flags flying. Jemma merely lifted her head higher. He marveled at her bravery. A lifetime of practice would enable one to meet those Gorgon eyes with equanimity, theoretically, but he rather doubted he would ever be able to do so. “Is there a reason this couldn’t be done in decent hours?”

Jemma opened her mouth, realized she didn’t have the answer, and looked quickly to him. Squirming a little, he sputtered, “didn’t want to interrupt the festivities?”

“Indeed.” Edith held his gaze for a long second, then spoke without looking away. “Darling, will you let me have a moment with Mr. Fitz?”

“Fitz,” she corrected.

Her mouth tightened. “Fitz, then.”

Jemma smoothed down her dressing gown and settled back on her heels. “I rather think I can hear anything you need to say to him.”

“Jemma.”

At that Jemma jumped to her feet, too essentially obedient to ignore the directive implied in the sharp syllables. Fitz didn’t blame her. All he wanted to do was get out of Edith’s sight as quickly as possible, too, only his orders were to stay. Resting her hand on his shoulder for a brief second as she rose, she squeezed it gently. _I’m sorry_.

 _Don’t be_ , he assured her when she shot a quick glance over her shoulder. He had to have this conversation sometime. He wouldn’t have chosen two a.m. on Christmas Day, perhaps, but better have it out now.

Edith waited until the upstairs door swung shut behind Jemma before turning to him, something lupine about her smile. “Mr. Fitz,” she said, all honey-covered menace, “would you mind explaining yourself?”

Cautiously, he tried to assess the situation. “What did you need explained, exactly?”

“Nothing much,” she said, “only why my Christmas Eve has involved my housemaid weeping because she’s afraid she’s been accused of theft—”

A sick feeling appeared in his stomach, the ghost of Maud’s wails echoing through the hall.

“—and my gardener threatening to put in his notice because someone’s mucked about with his mulch—”

“I hardly think,” he began hotly, but Edith had no time for it.

“—and my daughter so miserable she adds adding the dice incorrectly—”

“Jemma?” he gasped, even more guilty than before.

“—and, finally, waking only a few short hours after I went to sleep to find my daughter and her—her—” Apparently unable to come up with the right word to denote her disapproval, Edith settled for waving a hand at him. “Taking my Hoover to bits.”

He looked down at the pieces spread around him—nothing he couldn’t fix, but probably disconcerting to come upon in the middle of the night. And with the kind of day Mrs. Simmons had, his foolish actions only adding to the ordinary anxiety of hosting people for a holiday—he fidgeted uneasily. He had thought he was sorry before. Now he was sorry and ashamed.

“Any one of those things,” she continued, “perhaps I could let pass in the spirit of the season, but all of them together—”

“I lost the ring,” he blurted out, then clapped his hands over his mouth.

Edith stopped short, her mouth dropping open for half a second before she recovered herself. “What did you say?”

“I lost the ring,” he said again, slower but surer. “I was going to ask Jemma to marry me, but the ring is missing. All those things happened because I was looking for it and I wasn’t thinking about anything else.” He scrubbed his face in his hands before clambering to his feet, hopeful his face showed at least a tenth of the regret that filled his chest. “It shouldn’t have happened this way. I’m sorry.”

There was a beat, then two, as he stared at the floor and looked into a life in which his mother-in-law never forgave him for ruining her Hoover and her Christmas, in that order. It might make for some unpleasant holidays, but perhaps by the time there were grandchildren she might soften enough to speak to him again? Or perhaps not. He would manage if he had to, but he hoped it wouldn’t ruin Jemma’s relationship with Edith…

“You’re going to ask her to marry you.”

His head shot up. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn’t _that_ : Edith Simmons, who he had seen very nearly convince a houseful of murder suspects that the only thing they had to worry about was their backhand stroke, was brushing away a tear. “Are you all right?” he asked uneasily, wavering between starting forwards to help and staying back so she could pretend it wasn’t happening.

“Fine.” She waved him off brusquely. “But you’ve lost the ring. That’s awfully careless of you, Mr. Fitz.”

“Obviously, it was an accident.”

“How did you lose it?”

“I don’t know,” he said, beginning to find this conversation a tad unreal. “I had it last night when I went to bed but I can’t remember it any time today.”

“So you accused Maud.”

“Not intentionally,” he winced.

She regarded him a long moment. “Why didn’t you propose without it?”

Was this a common theme with mothers? “That’s what my mother said.”

“Too clever to listen to your mother, after all she’s done for you?”

“No,” he said, “it’s just…” He turned the screwdriver over in his hands. “I planned the whole thing out. Every bit of it. I worked on it for ages, trying to make it right, make it everything she deserves—I wanted her to know from the very beginning what I’m promising to do. I wanted it to be perfect.” A smile quirked his face as he remembered. “Of course, Mam said that it will be perfect, because we love each other. I should have listened to her earlier.”

“Yes,” Edith said, “you should. Then we could have avoided this whole mess.” She unfolded her arms and tucked them more firmly around her. “Well, clean this up, Mr. Fitz, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

She was halfway down the hall before he got over enough of his shock to speak again. “Mrs. Simmons!”

She turned just enough to see him over her shoulder.

“I’m still going to do it.”

“I expected so,” she said. “But wait until after dinner tomorrow.”

It was the least he could do, he thought. “All right.”

She nodded, once, firmly. “And Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas,” he echoed, and only afterwards realized how odd it was.


	3. Christmas

“Fitz. Fitz.”

He started awake, heart racing, and blinked several times into the grey gloom before he came to himself. Only her voice, he thought as he pushed back the covers, could manage to pull him out of a sleep that deep. Then he stumbled over his feet on the way to the door and realized there were limits to even her powers. “Coming, coming.”

Careening into the door, he pulled it open to find Jemma bouncing up on her toes with a wide smile across her face. “Is something wrong?” he asked, rubbing at his eyes with the tips of his fingers. “Not that, I mean, it doesn’t look—”

“No, nothing. I just wanted to be the first to say happy Christmas.” She stretched one arm over their heads, the perpetual parasite dangling from her fingers, and pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek. “Happy Christmas, Fitz.”

“Happy Christmas, Jemma.” Returning the favor, he chucked the mistletoe away to draw her to him. “To be entirely accurate, your mother said it first. But that was before I slept so it doesn’t count.”

“My mother?” She pulled slightly away, her eyebrows wavering between concern and confusion. “Oh, Fitz, was she awful?”

The conversation, unreal at the time, had taken on somewhat of a dream-like quality as he slept. Still, he was fairly confident he wouldn’t have made up that tear. “No, she was quite decent.”

The eyebrows tipped upward into outright surprise. “Decent? Really?”

“Perhaps it’s the Christmas spirit,” he offered. Seeing the million questions thronging to the tip of her tongue, he hastily changed the subject. “Does the morning start this early, or—?”

She shook her head. “No, I’m having breakfast with dad. We do every year.” Biting her lip, she let go his shirt and smoothed out the wrinkles. “You could join us, if you like?”

Screwing up his eyes, he considered the options. On the one hand, breakfast with Sir Robert at an ungodly hour of the morning would go a far way towards his self-imposed penance, even with the fact that he truly enjoyed Sir Robert’s company and the other man seemed to bear him no lasting ill-will for his behavior the day before. On the other, it had been beastly late last night after he had put the Hoover back together and it would be best for everyone if he got a few more hours of sleep. Only one thing could tip the scales: He looked at Jemma for a second. What would she rather he do?

“Thanks, but I’d better go back to bed,” he said slowly. “I’d love to have breakfast with you two, but I think your father would rather have you to himself.”

Instantly, he knew he had made the right decision. “Thank you, Fitz.” She leaned up once more, eyes bright. “Two hours then, and don’t you dare be late.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he promised.

She squeezed his hand once before backing out of his arms. “We dress for it, a bit.”

“What should I wear?”

“Did you bring the blue jumper?”

“Yes.”

“That,” she said, sparkling.

Somehow, he was not surprised when he came down two hours later to find her in her matching jumper. Even Chumps’s supercilious “oh, I didn’t realize there was a _theme_ ” couldn’t bring down his high spirits. Shoving his parcels under the tree, which had appeared as if by magic in the hall, he kissed his mother, said a second happy Christmas to Edith, and made a beeline for the glorious display of eggs and bacon resting on a table at one side of the space. Jemma met him there, handing him a cup of tea with a secret smile and her nose wrinkled in disgust. “Four lumps of sugar, as you like.”

“Thank you.” After looking around to make sure no one was watching, he winked. “That’s a charming sweater.”

“Why, thank you, kind sir.” Lowering her voice still further, she asked, “I forgot earlier—did you find it?”

He shook his head, his mouth too full with life-giving nectar to respond.

“Oh, Fitz, I’m sorry. Where else shall we look?”

Shrugging, he swallowed quickly. “Nowhere, at least not now.”

“But I thought—”

“It is,” he said, “but not as important as this. I’m not worried about it.”

She looked less than convinced—naturally, as he tended to be a bit of a dog with a bone about things—but apparently decided not to argue. Decided it was illogical, probably. Instead, she picked up her own tea, bumping their hands slightly in the process. “Gifts, then? I’m rather thrilled about giving you yours. And dad asked me about jazz albums three weeks ago, so you may be in luck.”

“Are you always this casual at Christmas?” he asked, trailing her towards the tree.

“Lord, no. This is a special dispensation for you. Usually we’re horribly formal.” She settled in one of the dining room chairs and patted the seat next to her. “Dinner will be stiff as boards.”

“Twelve courses, traditional goose…”

“Two kinds of pudding, one of them on fire.”

“Excellent,” he said, and meant it. A feast, followed by forever—well, forever metaphorically; in actuality they were taking the train down that evening. What was there to regret? So content was he that he actually managed a grin at Chumps when she slammed into the seat next to him as, apparently, had become her wont. “Happy Christmas, Chumps—I mean Cynthia.” Jemma, leaning around him, echoed the sentiment with a generous smile.

The girl gulped, turning a funny shade of red that made for a festive contrast with the stiff green frock she wore. “Ha-happy Christmas.”

“Jemma and I were just talking about dinner,” he continued jovially, “I hear one of the puddings is on fire? That must be exciting. In my house it would probably be dangerous, but I expect your aunt doesn’t allow it?”

Chumps shook her head, her eyes darting nervously towards Edith. “She doesn’t allow a lot of things.”

“You would be fine, Fitz,” Jemma said. “It’s not a towering inferno. Anyway, your mother is very capable. She’d make sure everything went right for you.”

He was about to respond when Sir Robert, wearing a bright red tie in tribute to the holiday, clapped his hands together. “Everyone got their tea? I’ll be St. Nick, shall I?”

“He always is,” Jemma whispered to Fitz, “the one time of the year when Mother lets him be in charge.”

Fitz stifled a snort and leaned back in his chair, willing himself into the present. _Soon, soon_ , he thought, but _now_ was good enough for him.

After gifts—he was glad that he hadn’t been content with the ring as his only gift, since the electric heater he had made for Rosalind was _still_ not as good as the waterproof, illumined-dial Rolex Jemma got him—and a bit of radio—he didn’t understand modern poetry, he had heard T.S. Eliot was good but why was he writing poems about cats, then?—and dressing for dinner, the party proceeded into the dining room. While not quite twelve courses, dinner was everything Jemma had promised and more: sumptuous dishes, excellent wines, and company better than he would have ever expected. Even Chumps appeared to be putting forward the old college try at civility. Even Edith unbent enough to laugh with his mother at her wry depiction of the first time she had roasted a duck. Fitz rather felt as though he had fallen into a Christmas bauble—everything seemed magnified and rosy, sparkling with good humor and good spirits. And it wasn’t even the wine. For the first time, he found himself enjoying a meal at Verinder Hall.

Several hours in, according to his new watch, Edith took advantage of a lull in conversation to draw everyone’s attention. “It’s nearly time for the King’s broadcast, which I’m sure we don’t want to miss. Shall we bring in the pudding?” As it was a rhetorical question, she motioned to Baines without waiting for an answer. “We prefer to turn out the lights, if our guests don’t mind.”

“Certainly,” Jean said, smiling broadly, and Fitz shrugged and nodded.

Jemma leaned over to him. “It’s for effect. The flames are, of course, bright enough on their own—the oxygen in the brandy burns quite a bright blue, actually, and the evaporating water—” And then she broke off with an excited gasp and grabbed his hand under the table as Baines entered the room with the flaming pud before him, carefully held out so as not to singe his eyebrows. Fitz watched the flames dance over her face and couldn’t seem to stop smiling.

Once the pudding had burnt itself out, Edith had the lights turned back on and began dishing it herself. “The tokens are heirlooms in Sir Robert’s family,” she explained to his mother, “they’ll be Jemma’s someday. Except the sixpence, of course; whoever gets that keeps it.”

“How lovely,” Jean said, accepting the plate Edith handed her and passing it down. “A thimble, I suppose, and a wishbone?”

“And a china baby,” Edith said, “though we didn’t put that in this year. Ah, no, Mr. Fitz, I believe that one is yours. Jemma darling, have this one.”

Rolling her eyes, Jemma stood to take the plate from her mother. “That would have done just as well for me; you know I love Christmas pudding.”

“Well,” Edith said, “perhaps Mr. Fitz will share.”

Staring down at the plate he held, Fitz heard their conversation as if through earmuffs. How—? What—?

There, nestled into the corner of the cake, was the ring.

His mind whirled. The first, wildly incorrect thought was that it had been in the pudding the whole time, though he instantly rejected that as impossible (everyone knew the pudding had been stirred up a month ago). Second, he considered the idea that it wasn’t his ring at all, and he had merely conjured up the details in some slightly tipsy fantasy. But he hadn’t had that much to drink, and closer inspection revealed the tiny letters he had engraved on the inside. No, it was most certainly his, and there. Had Edith found it? Had she had it this whole time? And did it matter how it had come to be here on his plate at all?

“Fitz?”

His best beloved’s voice worked its magic once again, and he came back to the room with a sudden start. “Hmm?” he replied, not trusting his voice.

She controlled her fond smirk admirably. “Did you get anything in your cake? Only you’re staring at it like it might explode.”

It just might, he thought. “Yeah, um, the, er, sixpence. Which is why it’s mine, of course. Because of the unexpected riches bit.”

“Fitz, that was last year. It doesn’t work retroactively.” She took a bite and chewed, only for a strange expression to cross her face. Bringing her hand to her mouth, she delicately spit something into it. “Anyway, I’ve got the sixpence. Curious. Perhaps I’ll sell a patent.”

“No doubt,” he said too loudly as he subtly made a barricade between her plate and his with his napkin. Or perhaps it wasn’t as subtle as he hoped, since she snatched it away with a quick flick of her wrist.

“Come now, Fitz, I think there’s been enough secrets for—”

And then her eyes fell on it, the blue glint lighting up her face as brightly as the brandy flames, and she stopped as if struck. “Fitz,” she whispered, eyes wide as saucers and her breath coming quickly through barely parted lips.

“Well,” he said, “it’s all the one secret, so.”

It seemed to him, later, that the rest of the room had fallen away. Vaguely he heard someone, maybe Chumps, stand up and thump down again, and he was fairly certain Sir Robert made a loud comment about it being about time that showed up. In the moment, though, he wasn’t aware of any of it—there was only his pounding, racing heart and her. The river he had fallen into the first time he ever saw her swelled with new joy; it became a roaring flood and he a miserable hovel on the banks about to be swept away in a flurry of matchsticks. He could never come out and he didn’t want to. No matter how long he stayed under, he could never plumb the depths of her love. Suddenly, he realized he was crying.

“Fitz,” she said again, laughing as she brushed away a tear with her thumb, “you darling idiot, this was the secret this whole time? Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“I couldn’t,” he protested, “I lost the ring.”

She laughed again, gleefully, like she couldn’t hold it in. “You can propose without a ring, you great ninny.”

“So I’ve been told,” he said ruefully, laughing a little himself. “But I didn’t want to. I wanted to follow through according to plan. It was a glorious plan, Jemma, you would have been proud.”

“The Icehouse!” she cried, “Oh, Fitz, that was why you wanted to go for a walk—”

“—and then it was all burnt up and the ring wasn’t in my pocket—”

“—you might have said—”

“—and then you started giving my speech for me—”

“You had a speech?”

He scoffed. “Course I had a speech. _Agonized_ over it through three board meetings.”

“Well.” She put her chin in both hands expectantly. “Let’s hear it, then.”

Slowly returning to awareness of the other people in the room, he looked around uneasily. “What, now?”

“Yes, now.” Spreading one hand to encompass their family, she set her jaw as firmly as was possible when her smile threatened to split it. “They won’t mind, and I don’t want to miss it again.”

He glanced from his mother’s beaming tears, to Sir Robert’s benevolent contentment, to Edith’s inscrutable impassivity, and decided she was probably right. Taking a deep breath, he shoved back his chair and began to get down onto his knee.

She stopped him with both hands on his shoulders. “But not that, Fitz. We’re equals always, remember? If you get on your knee I’ll get on mine. And think of how that would look.”

Obediently, he returned to his seat. “As long as you know I was going to. In the dirt and the wet and the cold. That’s the important thing.”

Her smile was tremulous. “Duly noted.”

“All right. Well.” He cleared his throat, recalling the speech he had practiced in the bathroom mirror a million times. “I thought I would start with something about how fond I am of the Icehouse—it would have to flow naturally from the conversation, you see.”

“Of course,” she agreed, “but I would say that seems odd, considering you nearly—”

“Yes, exactly. So then I would say—well, what you said, basically: that the other things that happened there were more important. That first night, we talked and I realized for the first time that I wasn’t alone in the world, that there was someone else like me, better than me—”

“Never better, Fitz. Not that.”

“Shh. This is my speech.” She pressed her lips together mockingly, and he continued. “The next time I told you my secret and you gave me hope when I had none, and we became partners.”

“The first one I ever had,” she said softly.

“The best one you could ever have,” he said, then heard his words and flushed. “I mean, you’re the best partner I could ever have, not _I’m_ —you know.”

She took his hand in both of hers and held it in her lap. “I know.”

“The next time we decided we were friends. Jemma”—he stopped to shake his head, still disbelieving—“I don’t think I can tell you—my notes at this point are a mess, because no words can explain what your friendship is. I couldn’t know when we started that knowing you and being your friend would change my whole life and make me a better person, but even then I thought it was the best thing that could ever happen to me. Only…only it wasn’t. Because the next time you said—well—”

And he reached behind him for the ring, tipping it between his fingers so she could see the engraving. She sucked in a quick breath, one finger tracing the words. “More than that,” she whispered, her tears finally jostled loose when she met his eyes. “Oh, Fitz.”

His own tears resumed, but he smiled through them and took a deep breath, finally down to the heart of it. “I still don’t know why. Everything I’ve said so far is what you do and are for me, and I haven’t yet been able to figure out what I offer you, but if you’ll let me, Jemma, I’ll spend my whole life trying. From now until I die. And even if you say no, I’ll still do it, because simply being in the orbit of your brilliance and kindness and beauty is enough, and all I want is for you to be yourself, and to have a little of your light bounce off me.”

And it was all he could do not to fall on both knees at her feet; the gesture had transformed from a mere matter of form to the only proper reaction. Instead, he clutched her hand more tightly, feeling their pulses thump-thump away in unison. “But don’t say no. Let’s be partners and best friends and everything more than that for the rest of our lives. Please, Simmons, Jemma, marry me.”

She stared down at their clasped hands for long enough to make him second-guess his early surety, her finger still running over the ring. Then she looked up, eyes wet and merry all at once. “You bought me a ring to match your eyes?”

“Does it?” He glanced down sharply, considering. “It’s blue for your frocks, the dress the first night and the one from Lola…it seemed appropriate…but if you don’t like it—”

“I love it,” she interrupted quickly.

“Oh. Well. Well, good.” He waited. Nothing more was forthcoming. “So, then…” he started finally, tearing his eyes away from her just long enough to look to his mother for reassurance.

Jemma canted her head to one side, wiping her tears away with two fingers. “Before I answer, may I offer a response? It’s only fair.”

“Sure, sure,” he said, pumping his head up and down, “whatever you like.”

But she seemed unable to do so, after all, opening her mouth a little and closing it again several times before finally shaking her head. “Ugh, Fitz!” she said, cupping her hands around her neck, “you have to allow me the opportunity to prepare. What am I to say to that? You know how rotten I am with words.”

His hands had begun shaking with the tension and his voice came out in a croak. “I only need one.”

“Oh! Oh, right, of course.” Clearing her throat, she smoothed down her skirts and settled her hair before taking his right hand in hers. “In a word then, Fitz,” she said, carefully maneuvering their hands until the tip of her ring finger rested inside the band, “Yes. Of course, yes.”

He surged forwards, unable to remain seated with the giddiness coursing through him. In one swift motion he pushed the ring to its resting place at the base of her finger and pulled them both to their feet, doing his best not to crush her to his chest and not quite succeeding. She didn’t seem to mind, though, burrowing into him and whispering “oh, Fitz. Oh, _Fitz_ ” over and over. Each repetition felt like a searing brand and a kiss, even through three layers of clothing: _mine_ , he knew she meant, _mine_. _Yours_ , he thought hard as he tightened his arms around her, nearly burying his face in her shoulder. _Yours_.

For all they felt inclined to move, they might have stayed there forever. Eventually, though, the deep hollow sound of Sir Robert’s palm hitting the table like a gavel battered through their reverie. “Bother,” Jemma muttered as she pulled away, the imprint of his button on her cheek nearly covered by her blush. When he squeezed her hand the ring, previously memorized, felt bran-new. Turning to their family hand-in-hand, they flushed more deeply when they realized that nearly everyone was crying. Only Edith, casually whispering to Baines, remained stoic. Three out of four wasn’t a bad percentage, Fitz thought, especially as he wouldn’t have expected it of Chumps.

Sir Robert stood slowly from his place at the head of the table, all his judicial dignity vanished as he passed his sleeve over his face. “Well, that’s a pretty tableau. It only wants one more thing to be as good as a film.”

Fitz looked at Jemma, utterly bewildered, and she ducked her head. “What, sir?” he asked, mind racing as fast as possible when it was so utterly sated.

“Kiss the girl, man! Have you got blood in your veins or not?”

The flush crept from his ears to his face, and he clapped his free hand to the back of his neck. Kissing her had, indeed, been the next part of his plan when this all happened in the Icehouse, but in front of all their family…”Well,” he stammered, “I don’t—”

But then Jemma was up on tiptoe and drawing his head down, a firm hand resting behind his ear. “Dad loves the kissing in films,” she said from a breath away, her eyes dark pools and her nails lightly scraping his skin. “You don’t want to disappoint him, do you?”

And then her mouth was on his, all chaste touches and soft brushes, tiny butterfly pledges made firm by the grip of her hand on his lapel and his neck, intoxicating, paralyzing, and somehow more meaningful than all the kisses they had shared before put together. Perhaps it was the promise that made it so, he thought as he spread his hands across her back to help anchor her against him. Perhaps kisses like this, ones made with the absolute certainty that there would be more, were their own kind of vow.

Far too soon, she broke the kiss, resting her forehead against his and smiling breathlessly into his eyes. “Yours,” she whispered.

“Mine,” he promised with the taste of her tingling at his lips.

“Well, if you’re satisfied, Sir Robert, this seems an appropriate time for a toast.”

Entirely lost in Jemma—was there a world outside the sight and scent and feel of her? He couldn’t remember—Fitz jumped a little at Edith’s strident tones. They didn’t quite fit in the soft, pastel existence he had recently ascended to. Still, there was no disobeying them. Somehow—he never knew how, exactly—he found himself seated with his arm around Jemma and a chilled champagne flute in his other hand, applauding Sir Robert as he rose for his speech.

“Ladies and gentleman,” Sir Robert said, “I am asked to give a few words on this joyous occasion. I shall be but brief, as I will have to give another speech at a later date and prefer not to tip my hand, as it were, on any future remarks. However, I think it patently obvious that I couldn’t be more pleased with this turn of events, as indeed I told Fitz when we discussed the matter several months ago.”

“Months!” Jemma repeated, turning in his embrace. He shrugged.

“I think I speak for everyone here when I wonder why Fitz didn’t put us all out of our misery earlier—”

Fitz shot his mother a quick, repentant look. She merely pursed her lips wisely.

“—but regardless, now it’s happened, as the honest among us will admit we always knew it would. My darling Gem, I have every confidence that this man will do as he has promised. My future son, you are the luckiest man alive.”

“I know,” he said, and he and Sir Robert mutually reached for their handkerchiefs.

“Well,” Sir Robert finished once he had blown his nose, “a father’s blessing on you both, and best wishes for your health and happiness, et cetera. I’ve never married off a daughter before and I don’t know how you end these things. Perhaps Mrs. Fitz would like to say a few words?”

“Drink first,” Edith said.

They all took a sip of champagne, even Chumps, and looked expectantly at Jean. She rose unsteadily to her feet, one fist twisting in the folds of her gown. “I don’t have much to say,” she began, voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know hardly anything about marriage, since mine was so short, and the love I had is mostly dried-out roses.”

From the corner of his eye, Fitz caught a tear trickling down Jemma’s cheek.

Jean continued more strongly. “But I do know that you two remind me of things I had nearly forgotten. God willing, you’ll never be less happy than you are right now, but when life comes to ruin it I pray that you’ll never lose this shining love between you. It will sustain you through the hardest times. Jemma, I know that Fitz would never love you so much if you weren’t wholly deserving of it. My son—” She stopped and pressed her lips together, blinking back tears. He moved reflexively, loosening his grip on Jemma to stand and hold out his hand out to his mother. She waved him off and cleared her throat. “My son. I wish your father could be here now. He would be so very, very proud of you.” Holding up her glass steadily, she finished: “To Fitz and to Jemma—may they always have each other.”

The champagne, sweet at first, was becoming almost unbearably so the more he cried. Good lord, he thought, mopping his face, if he was this bad now he might as well hire a boat for the wedding. He was just about to ask Jemma if he, too, was expected to give a toast, and if so if she would mind holding his hand while he did so, when Edith rose and cleared her throat sharply. The party looked at her in surprise.

“I believe,” she said coolly, “anyone who wishes to may give a speech?” And, as no one dared to say her nay, she continued without interruption, staring firmly at a spot somewhere above Fitz’s head. “It is no secret that I have been somewhat antagonistic to this match. I wanted something else for Jemma, a happiness I could understand, and that would never be with an upstart former secretary who would only encourage her in her more unorthodox pursuits. The life she would lead thus seemed to me no kind of life worth living, and I worried for her.”

Fitz could feel Jemma shifting uneasily beside him. At the head of the table, Sir Robert stared into his glass as if he could judge the proof by looking at it.

“Though I scarcely ever admit it,” Edith went on, “I am, on occasion, wrong. This is one of those occasions. I still do not understand this life my daughter wants to lead, but I have watched her these past seven months and I now know that there will be no happiness for her that does not include Fitz.”

His head shot up. Edith met his gaze squarely, fully aware of what she had said. “Since that is so, and since Fitz seems to make it his goal in life to ensure that happiness for her without reference to himself or, obviously, anyone else, I cannot object any longer. I am glad to welcome Fitz to our family. And Mrs. Fitz, as well. To Jemma and Fitz—may they continue as they have begun.”

“Cheers,” everyone repeated, somewhat dazed as they drank, and Edith nodded briskly.

“It is now ten til three. We should proceed to the drawing room so we don’t miss any of the King’s Christmas broadcast.”

The rest of the evening passed in somewhat of a blur for Fitz, all hazy impressions of music and laughter and the warm, solid presence of Jemma never far from his side. In truth there wasn’t much of it left after the broadcast; they had merely an hour before they had to leave for the station, and a good bit of that was taken up with settling on a date for the wedding. May, he thought they agreed upon, or as soon as Jemma had her master’s in hand.

Sir Robert drove them to the station, Fitz and Jemma snug in the back of the Austin with Chumps—as always—on his other side, Sir Robert and Jean laughing about something in the front seat. And then they were on the train headed back to town and his fiancée was peeling off her gloves so they could all admire the ring more fully.

“But I don’t understand,” Jemma said after explaining at great length what geological factors went into creating a stone of this superior color and clarity, “if you found the ring after all, why were you looking at your plate as though there was a poisonous snake on it?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t find it. I didn’t lie to you, Jemma—haven’t yet and never will.”

“Where did it come from, then?” Jemma asked, wide-eyed.

He shrugged, his available hand raised to the heavens. “Haven’t the foggiest. I expect your mother must have found it somewhere—she was the only one who knew it was missing, besides Mam.” Tracing the setting with one finger, he mused. “Bucket must have found it outside, I suppose. Don’t think Maudie knew where it was.” A troublesome thought popping up to ruin his elevated state of mind, he sat up and frowned. “I should send her a present or something to apologize. I didn’t mean to accuse her of stealing.”

Perched precariously on the facing seat, Jean braced herself as they went around a curve and rolled her eyes. “I’ve told you again and again, Leo, you’ve got to pay attention to how you treat the help.”

“ ’s ridiculous,” he grumbled, and Jemma patted him kindly.

“It’s all right, Fitz. You weren’t brought up to it. You’ll learn.”

“Not if he doesn’t try,” Jean said darkly. “You’ve let yourself in for a handful, Jemma.”

She shot him an amused glance from the corner of her eye. “I think I can manage him. To return to our previous topic, though, I don’t think Bucket found it. I’ll bet you a good deal Chumps took it.”

“Chumps?” he repeated, “when? How?”

Jemma waved an airy hand, obviously admiring the way the sapphire cast light across the car as she did so. “Who knows? But she’s been in trouble at school for taking other girls’ things—you’re family now, so I may as well tell you—and she certainly stuck close to you all weekend. It wouldn’t have been too difficult to sneak it from your pocket—I assume that’s where you kept it, at least?”

“In the daytime,” he said. She nodded.

“And since the poor dear has a dead pash on you—”

This time he really did yelp. Jean nodded wisely. “Poor thing,” she said. “Fourteen is such a trying age.”

“What?” he said again, trying desperately for some clarity. “Chumps—what? On me?”

“Of course,” Jean said, and Jemma added, “You didn’t know?”

“How am I to know?” he asked indignantly, spreading out his hands. “I haven’t had a great deal of experience. I’ve just proposed to the first girl to show any interest in me. This is not funny!” he told Jemma, who was giggling uncontrollably with both hands in front of her mouth. “If I had known—why didn’t you say something earlier?”

“Oh, but Fitz—” She went off into a peal of laughter that deepened in tandem with the furrow in his forehead. “Of course she did! She was trying to impress you all weekend! You—you—” Sucking in a screeching breath, she managed to bring herself back under control long enough to say, “You kissed her goodbye!”

He slumped down in his seat, fully aware his dignity was about three kilometers behind them. “On the cheek,” he grumbled. “She said since we were going to be cousins it was proper.”

Jean closed her eyes briefly as Jemma held her sides and sighed. “What am I going to do with you, Fitz? You’re so brilliant and so terribly silly sometimes. Darling idiot, yes, Chumps has a massive pash on you, and who can blame her? And since that is so, it wouldn’t surprise me if she somehow got hold of the ring.”

He scratched at his cheek, his chin still resting on his chest. It did make some logical sense, he supposed—certainly explained how cross she had been at Jemma all holiday. And how she always managed to pop up where he was. And why she seemed so interested in MI. “All right,” he said slowly. “And if I did leave it on my dresser, like I thought I did in the first place, she could have gone up after we left her for our walk.”

“Exactly,” Jemma nodded. “And my mother cornered her this morning and demanded she return it. That’s the simplest solution, don’t you think?”

“She was awfully subdued this morning. Is that why she cried, then?”

“No, she cried because your speech was beautiful. Even a hard-boiled pimple like Chumps isn’t completely heartless.”

A pleased pinkness crept into his ears. “Was it?”

“Of course it was,” she said, controlling her grin admirably. “Some of your best work, really. But about Chumps—”

He nodded, reflecting fleetingly that his problems with linear thought seemed to have worsened over the last few hours. He kept being distracted by the lights in her hair as they passed through stations. “I think you’re right. Much the simplest solution. You’re very clever.”

“No flattery, Fitz,” she said, but she turned slightly pink anyway.

“It’s not flattery, it’s true. If I had consulted with you earlier, we might have saved ourselves this whole mess!”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Jean murmured, a smile playing around the edge of her lips as she gazed fixedly into the darkness out the window.

His eyes snapped from his fiancée to his mother, having caught in her nonchalance something she wasn’t saying. Less familiar with Jean’s intonations, Jemma was already agreeing. “True, she might have denied it. At that point you probably still would have had to consult Mother. She can put the fear of God into anyone.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Jean said, “but it wouldn’t have done her any good, either. Chumps didn’t have the ring. I did.”

A second of stunned silence fell over the car. Then—

“You had it all along?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“And Fitz was so awful—”

“Hey!”

“You were, Fitz, there’s no pretending otherwise—but why?”

“Yes, why?”

“That’s exactly why.” Folding her hands in her lap, Jean nodded firmly, then appeared to relent. “At least, that’s why I didn’t tell later. At first I only meant to teach you a lesson.”

“But when?” he asked, simply unable to fit this new information into place. All day yesterday when he had been running around like a madman, his mother—his mother!—had held the key to his serenity in her pocket the whole time. Honestly, he couldn’t help feeling a bit betrayed.

Jean sighed. “Yesterday morning. I went in to say good morning and saw the contents of your pockets spread across the dresser as usual—how poor Jemma will deal with your messes I really don’t know—”

“Really?” Jemma asked, leaning forwards to rest her forearms on her knees. “But his office and lab benches are always so tidy.”

“Jemma, not essential,” he growled, and she shot him a look but subsided.

“Later.” Jean patted Jemma’s knee and continued. “You really can’t leave valuables out like that, Fitz, it isn’t fair to the servants. Not because it tempts them to steal, but because if anything happens they’re the first ones to be blamed, often unfairly. As you now know.”

With Maud’s flood of tears ingrained on his memory, Fitz could see her point. “All right,” he said, crossing his arms, “but after. When I was tearing the room apart or, gosh, after my bath or any other time yesterday you could have pulled me aside and handed it over.”

“After, son? You mean after you had tumbled into a frenzied whirlpool of ridiculous behavior and insulted nearly everyone in sight?”

“I didn’t,” he said petulantly, perfectly aware that he had. The barrage of _don’t be ridiculous_ looks hitting him from either side were superfluous.

“I certainly was not going to give it to you until you had made things right without it. I told you again and again, Leo, the ring wasn’t important anyway.”

“That’s true, Fitz,” Jemma said, picking up his hand and placing it over hers on the seat between them. “Of course I adore it, but I would have been just as happy if you had gone through with your plan without it. Or if you had asked over the poor old Hoover, or any time really. And your behavior was a bit ridiculous.”

“I know,” he groaned. Pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers, he looked over them to his mother. “All right, you were right. I was going to do it anyway, you know, today. With or without it.”

“I know,” she said, smiling fondly. “That’s why I gave it back.”

Jemma sat up sharply, pulling her hand away and cocking her head to one side. “But how did you put it on the plate, then?” she asked, “You were on the far side of the table. And Mother was the one serving.”

“Well, she had it already. I didn’t know that was how she would return it, but I thought it all worked out nicely.”

“Yes, it was lovely,” Jemma said, still distracted, “but I still don’t understand—”

“Your mother came to me before you two were down this morning. She said she had been made aware of what was happening and wondered if Fitz would be terribly insulted if she offered one of the Simmons family rings to stand in the place of yours.”

Jemma gasped audibly, one hand coming up to cover her mouth. Fitz was hardly less surprised himself. “She did?” he asked, dumbly.

Jean nodded. “She said that he was quite determined to do things properly and she admired that, but didn’t want to step on anyone’s toes. Well, how could I withhold it any longer?” Her eyes darkened. “Should I have let her, though? It was such a nice gesture.”

More than a gesture, Fitz thought—it was, more even than her toast, approval and welcome. Her willingness to let him propose with a family heirloom—facilitating it, seeking his mother’s opinion—meant, just perhaps, that he had finally won Edith Simmons over. And after he had taken her Hoover to bits and spoiled her holiday, too. He fell back on the seat, entirely overcome. If there was a luckier man in the entire cosmos, Fitz couldn’t imagine it.

Jemma pressed her lips together, smiling tightly. “No. At least, I’m glad I have this ring, but I’m nearly as glad to know that she would have done that. Thank you for telling me, Mrs. Fitz.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

None of them spoke for awhile after that, each too occupied with their own thoughts. Fitz watched the tracks fall away, mind running backwards as quickly as the train went on. The holiday had turned out so differently than he anticipated—so much, he thought ruefully, for preparation. That would apparently be Jemma’s responsibility in the future. And yet it had come out to exactly the same thing in the end, whatever had come in the middle: he was going to marry Jemma Simmons, to be privileged to love her for the rest of his life. What, he asked himself, did any of the rest of it matter? Nothing. Nothing mattered, other than her.

They were nearly to London, where he and Jean would get off, when Jemma started to laugh. “What is it?” he asked, blinking out of his stupor to smile at her fondly.

“Only it’s funny,” she said. “Another house party, another mystery to solve. Next time perhaps we’ll have to deal with the Cammora.”

He groaned, resting his head on her shoulder for half a second. “Let’s not have a next time, all right? Let’s avoid Verinder Hall if we can help it.”

“But Fitz,” she said, eyes bright with glee, “we can’t avoid it. Nor, in fact, do you want to.”

“Why not?”

“Fitz! Don’t you know your traditions? The bride is always married from her home. We’ll have to go back for the wedding, at least.”

A sudden vision of Jemma coming down the stairs at Verinder Hall in something white and filmy, flowers on her arm and a smile brighter than the sun, took his breath away for a second. He swallowed thickly. “All right,” he said, “I suppose I can manage that, then. If I have to.”

She gave him a look that was as good as a kiss. “No other option, I’m afraid. You’re well and truly trapped now.”

He shrugged, knowing he was absolutely oozing adoration and entirely unable to care. “Could be worse, I suppose. At least I have you for company.”

“Or you will soon enough.”

Not soon enough, he thought when he stood on the platform and waved furiously as her train pulled away from Paddington Station. If it wasn’t tempting fate for a man who had more than he had ever dreamed to want more, Fitz would. She was his, certainly, and he was hers, and they would be together forever—but they weren’t together _right now_.

“Soon,” his mother said, watching him droop as the train pulled out of sight.

Naturally, she could read his mind; he and Jemma understood each other instinctively, but Jean had years of practice and mother’s intuition on her side. In response, he gave her half a smile and his arm, tucking her hand into his elbow. “And in the meantime I have you, and that’s excellent too. Even if you did nearly give me heart failure.”

She patted him tenderly. “Only in your best interests, my son.”

 

* * *

 

A knock at the bedroom door roused him just as he was about to drop off. A second later, his valet padded in on nearly silent feet. “I’m sorry to wake you, sir, but you did say you wished to speak with Miss Simmons whenever she rang.”

He sat up quickly, the blankets sliding off him—he still wasn’t used to Uncle George’s slippery sheets. “Yes! Thank you, Lane. I’ll take it.”

“Very good, sir.” Lane set the phone down on the table beside the bed and tactfully disappeared, shutting the door behind him.

Fitz picked up the receiver, heart pounding. “H’lo? Jemma? Is everything all right?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, sounding rather out of breath herself, “only, I thought of what I wanted to say. Earlier. When you…you know.”

He clutched the receiver tightly. “Yes, I know. What…um, what is it?”

“I just wanted to say: what you offer me is everything you are, and that is everything I need and more than I had ever even imagined I would have. You’re so—extraordinary, really, brilliant and lovely and kind and brave. I’m—I’m astounded, Fitz, that I am allowed to call you mine, and I’m privileged to be yours.” She let out a long, slow exhale. “That’s all.”

He froze like a statue, turned to stone by her words as surely as if she had dipped him in plaster of paris. It wasn’t fair, part of his mind thought, that she could say those things when he couldn’t do anything about it, but more of him was concentrated on breathing without blubbing into the phone.

“Still there, Fitz?”

“I think so,” he said, “hard to tell, I might be ten feet off the ground.”

“Oh good! You’ve come to join me, then.”

“Jemma,” he started, faltered, and tried again. “Do you know the mass of the sun?”

There was a pause, then her voice came, bright and brave. “However great it is, it’s not as much as I love you.”

And there were the tears again, trickling down his cheeks and rolling off the slope of his smile. “I love you too,” he said, laughing, “and I don’t care if the entire Exchange knows it. I love you, Jemma Simmons. Thank you for agreeing to be my wife.”

“The pleasure will all be mine. Fitz, I know you don’t want to go back to the Hall for a bit, but I rather think it won’t be soon enough.”

“Amen,” he said fervently, and she laughed.

“My three minutes are almost up. I love you.”

“I love you.”

“Goodnight, Fitz.”

He put the receiver back on the hook giddily and turned out the light, rolling over to stare at the ceiling with the surety that he would never be able to get to sleep. It was like the proverbial child on Christmas Eve, unable to sleep for the anticipation of the next day’s festivities. Except that today was Christmas Eve, and Christmas would be the rest of his life. The rest of his life, with her.

Soon, he thought as his eyelids dropped shut in spite of himself. Soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I know it devolved into FLUFF at the end there, but I couldn't help myself, I really couldn't. Nor shall I apologize.
> 
> Special props to muchadoaboutdoctorwho, who totally guessed it!
> 
> I have no idea if engraving in rings was a thing in the Thirties—in fact I rather doubt it—but I figured Fitz could figure it out if anyone could. If that's as historically inaccurate as it gets, I'm willing to claim artistic license and move on.
> 
> Also, it is a fact that on Christmas 1937, the BBC aired a reading of several poems from Eliot's Book of Practical Cats. I wasn't able to ascertain if it was in the morning or evening, but it was such an odd detail I felt it had to be put in. The stuff you learn!


End file.
